


Trouble-Free Transmission

by roggietaylor



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: 1970s, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Early Queen (Band), M/M, Trans!John, a bit of transphobia, internal and external
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:41:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 60,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24880969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roggietaylor/pseuds/roggietaylor
Summary: John is trans and it's come to pass that the only one who doesn't know is Roger. Partly to keep himself safe, and partly to avoid Roger looking at him in a different light. He knows his crush on Roger is hopeless but at very least he doesn't want Roger to see him as something too strange to be close with.
Relationships: John Deacon/Roger Taylor
Comments: 59
Kudos: 109





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya! I don't know really how many people cared for another trans fic, but I still wrote one. If anyone's curious about the updates to my other fics well, they'll be coming soon! I hope whoever reads this enjoys it! And please leave a comment if you do <3

John locked the bathroom door and tugged on it to double check no amount of jostling could set it free. He set his stage clothes on the counter top between two sinks and looked at the makeup Freddie’d covered him with in the mirror. He always did his makeup more masculine for him. Long ago he said John and Roger didn’t need to bother with makeup, their faces were feminine enough already. But it’d been a long time since he’d said that again, and every night before a show he’d line John’s eyes a little rougher, a little harsher, a little less dainty, and when no one was looking he’d thicken up his eyebrows too.

All in all it looked good, but it was never a sight John got used to. Wasn’t one he wanted to get used to.

He peeled off his trousers and hurried to squeeze into the leather ones Freddie made him wear. They didn’t breathe and taking them off after a night spent under hot lights was torture, but it was part of the ‘look’ and god forbid he stray from it. Once the trouser legs were successfully on, he rearranged the socks in his pants to look more convincing, less like socks. It was hard to hide in leather though.

He pulled his t shirt off and didn’t bother looking in the mirror again until he had the sequined _creation_ Freddie had offered him as a top. It was heavy fabric with lots of draping and pleating and shimmering beading. Something to catch people’s eye without having to go topless like Roger usually did. He swayed with it in the mirror, felt the weight of the beading and the force of it as it moved. Flashy but not tight fitting, no chance of anyone spying the way he bound his chest through such intricate detail.

“Deaky are you—” the door moved, jostled as someone pushed against the lock, “Deaky? You still in there? We’re on soon.” came Roger’s voice, muffled a bit by the door.

“Yes, come in,” said John, making any last minute adjustments in the way the fabric fell across his chest.

“You locked the door,” said Roger, jostling the knob again.

“No I didn’t,” said John with very convincing confusion as he made his way to the door and flicked over the lock. “How weird, I didn’t even know this door _could_ lock.”

“Old building I guess,” said Roger with a shrug. He looked John up and down, lingering on his chest for a moment. A moment that made John hold his breath and wonder if maybe he’d missed something when he checked himself in the mirror for any dead giveaways. Then Roger reached a hand out, ran his fingertips across some of the beads just below John’s collarbone. “This looks nice on you.”

“Oh,” John tried to be covert with his sigh of relief, “Freddie picked it out.”

“Mm,” Roger ran his hand over his collar, across to his shoulder, “actually I picked it out, and I was right, it does suit you.”

“Thanks,” squeaked John.

“You’ll be a real crowd pleaser in that,” said Roger with one last lingering touch. “Well, come on.”

Roger grinned up at him and turned on his heel, back down the hall to their little green room. John followed on unsteady feet and tried to get himself focused on the show, on his playing, and not on the faint traces of heat Roger’s hands left on him. He couldn’t let himself focus on that, he’d get too lost in it. Lost in a dead end he’d been pretending he didn’t fantasise about since a month or two after they first met. But that was ages ago now, almost a year, if he could pretend for that long, he could pretend forever.

“Oh you look adorable,” cooed Freddie when he got eyes on John.

“You think?” said John with a laugh. He noticed in Freddie’s mirror his cheeks were still a little pink. Just from Roger’s gentle touch, just from a friendly compliment. How pathetic.

“He doesn’t look _adorable_ , Fred, this is a rock concert not a fucking sunday choir performance,” said Roger with his usual raspy laugh.

“Sorry John but I’m too old to be calling you sexy,” said Freddie.

“Well _I’m_ not,” said Roger, “and you do look sexy.”

“Tha-anks,” said John with a nervous hiccup.

“Get a room,” teased Brian.

“Oh please,” Roger took a step towards John, reached up and fiddled with the way his fringe lay on his forehead, “I’d ruin him.”

_“Excuse me?”_ said Freddie with a choking laugh.

“Well I would,” said Roger with a tighter laugh and step backwards from John.

“Someone thinks an awful lot of themselves,” said Brian more cooly.

“I’ve got good reason to,” said Roger, all confidence, as he fiddled with his own fringe next to Freddie in the mirror.

Times like these John wondered if he knew what he was doing, knew how he came off and intended it. Touches like that, comments like that, he wanted to believe they were too frequent or too intense to be just part of his natural charisma. But they had to be. In all John’s months of wishing, Roger’d never done anything out of the ordinary. He brushed Freddie’s hair, he’d kiss Brian’s cheek, he’d joke about shagging them all. No point in putting worth on those things, no matter how bad he wished he could.

“Okay, remember what I said last time,” said Freddie in a hushed voice as they hurried down the hall towards the stage door.

“What’d you say last time,” said John, a little more distracted by the way Roger’s voice carried down the hall than he’d like to be.

“Look at the audience, you don’t have to smile but _look_ ,” said Freddie. “You’re the quiet mysterious one, very desirable, but only if you’re willing to make a little more eye contact with the women and a little less with your bass. But keep doing that thrusting thing, everyone loves that move.”

“You want me to eye fuck the audience?” John laughed but his hands were clammy around his bass.

“I do it every night, darling.”

Freddie hopped on stage and introduced them all the way he normally did. Bolstering their abilities and dragging out their names for the audience to remember later on. As an opening act, John felt the showmanship was a little much. No one was really there for them, but no matter what, it was fun to watch Freddie prance around stage while he worked the crowd.

He wasn’t one for the spotlight, for much undo attention. It wasn’t in his nature, it never had been, but these days it kept him safe. Getting up on stage, worrying over how he looked, what he looked like, who he looked like, it all sent jolts of panic through him every night they performed, every time he had to face all those nameless audience members. But it was worth it, he figured, for the music, for the fun, for his bandmates, worth it if it meant he got to linger around Roger’s drumkit and shoot him looks over his cymbals throughout the night.

Roger shot them back, pulling faces and grinning, even if he was stuck in a particularly intricate groove he was always happy to have visitors at his kit. John liked to think that he smiled a little wider for him than Freddie and Brian. He liked to think it. With Roger right at his left, and John tight on Roger’s right, it was easier to get locked into the same groove, easier to riff on each other, easier to put their souls into the sound, and the crowd could always feel when they got to that point in a show. It seemed to happen earlier and earlier the longer they knew each other, and the feeling of plucking away at his bass in perfect unison with Roger no matter the tempo, always had his heart fluttering.

But he told himself that just the adrenaline.

Freddie blew kisses into the crowd, thanked them all for being so wonderful, though objectively they hadn’t done much to participate, and was the last off stage, John was always the first. He hurried down the steps off the stage, and rushed to the cramped little storage closet relabeled as a dressing room, only qualifying as such thanks to the cheap vanity crammed inside.

“We sounded good,” said Roger, first thing he always said, and every time it was followed by, “but we’ve been slacking on practice, that wasn’t as tight as it should’ve been.”

“Do you enjoy the negativity, Rog?” said Freddie. “Do you thrive off it?”

“I’m not a negative person,” Roger flopped in one of the metal folding chairs put backstage for them. “This is constructive criticism.”

“Can we bask for a few minutes before you insist on giving notes?” said Freddie. John knelt down, put his bass in his guitar case, and tried not to make a noise when he stood up, when the muscles around his ribs ached and cried for a little rest.

“You’re one to talk,” Roger put his feet up, “you’re practically giving notes in the middle of the performances usually.”

“Am not,” said Freddie.

“Are too,” said Brian. He wiped cold cream across his eyes, sponged it off to remove any eyeliner he hadn’t sweated off under the hot lights. Freddie reached beside him for the tub and did the same across his left eye first.

“Deaky, come here, let’s get that off you,” said Freddie.

“I can do it myself—”

“Just come here,” said Freddie, sounding like a put-out mother. John sighed and sauntered over to the vanity table, sat on the very edge of it and heard the wood creak.

“Freddie you _need_ to train your voice,” said Roger.

“Here he fucking goes,” Freddie lowered the sponge doused in cold cream and turned to look at Roger, sat back comfortably in his chair. “I can talk shite about your drumming as well, this is a two way street.”

“I mean it, your voice isn’t in shape, imagine how much better you’d sound if you knew how to sing,” said Roger.

“If I _knew how to sing?”_ snapped Freddie.

“You know what he meant,” laughed Brian.

“I didn’t realise I was such a tonal disaster in everyone’s eyes,” said Freddie.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Roger grinned at him, John could just barely see Freddie trying and failing not to grin back. Once Freddie had to stifle a laugh, Roger broke his attention off Freddie, shifted it to John. “I think we were really locked in tonight, don’t you?”

John stared back at his big blue, heavy-lidded eyes and nodded. “I think so.” His words were just above a whisper.

“I was actually going to mention, it sounded more, more,” Brian turned around in his seat and thought briefly for the perfect word before adding, “more thumpy!”

“Thumpy?” said Freddie.

“I thought so too!” said Roger. He looked back at John, half a grin still on his face, a strange excitement in his expression. Linger effects of the show no doubt. But John grinned back with equal excitement, equal anticipation of nothing in particular. Anything to get and keep Roger’s attention for a few more seconds.

“Deaky, look at me,” said Freddie with a makeup sponge coated in cold cream. John broke from his reverie and turned, let Fredde start to wipe away the eyeliner he’d drawn on. “God I really winged it out further than normal.”

“I’m assuming I’ll be loading the drums alone?” said Roger, John could almost feel his eyes on him. Maybe he just wished he did.

“That’s right, darling,” said Freddie in a singsong voice.

“You three do _zero_ work,” said Roger with a laugh. He jumped up out of his chair, stretched his back. “I’ll go load my drums while you all braid hair.”

“Thank you, dear,” said Freddie, grinning at him through the mirror, eyes staying locked on him until he left. “Go ahead, change while you can, Deaky.”

“I don’t have the fucking energy,” said John. His arms didn’t want to go over his head.

“I’ll do it for you, and we both know how you hate that,” said Freddie.

John was sore enough, tired enough, to consider taking Freddie up on that. But he didn’t want to need that help, certainly didn’t want to ask for it, not when he already got so many accommodations. He smeared off the cold cream that hadn’t quite melted his makeup off, hopped off the vanity, and hurried to rummage through the pile of clothes they’d changed out of before going on stage in their ridiculous outfits. He found his shirt, made sure it was ready to be tugged on in an instant before he peeled off the sweaty sequined top.

His bandages were soaked in sweat, rubbing his skin raw and tightening his lungs, while also, losing their binding power, losing their flat shape just enough for John to notice. He hurried to tug the old t-shirt he wore to the gig back on. He worked even faster with his trousers, hid a bit behind a clothes rack. Successfully changing in the backroom before Roger or anyone else burst in gave him a higher shot of adrenaline than the shows themselves ever did.

And it was just Roger he had to hide from. The only one in the band who had yet to find out or be told the truth.

When John auditioned for the three of them, still called Smile back in those days, he recognised Brian instantly. Brian’s all boys secondary had been a sort of sibling school to John’s all girls. If he thought back to the day he walked into that practice room to audition for them, he could still feel that horrible pang of terror when he saw Brian’s instantly recognisable hair staring back at him. And though he hoped he’d changed enough to go under Brian’s radar, hoped he’d been invisible and young enough in school to be forgotten, Brian spent most of the audition trying to place him. And John knew he had when Brian stopped asking questions and started looking away from him.

John caught him afterwards, ready to take the hit, to be fired before he’d been tested out on an audience, but Brian, typical Brian, apologised for knowing. As if he should’ve erased the memory. He swore up and down he’d never tell a soul, John believed him, and he’d been true to his word for nearly two years of John being in the band.

Freddie came to find out one night of a ‘tour’ down through Truro, staying with Roger’s mum and going from pub to pub. John got more drunk than he’d ever been, which was still wasn’t far past ‘tipsy’, and told poor Freddie the whole thing in a drunken garble on the walk home from the pub after they two decided to stay out a bit later than Roger and Brian. He still couldn’t quite remember what Freddie said that night, but he remembered the next morning when Freddie poured him coffee, and quietly, casually, offered an ear for any more trouble he could have.

But that was ages ago. He was more careful now, didn’t drink much, wouldn’t smoke much, wouldn’t engage any of the fans that wanted to say hello and maybe more. It was easier to be careful with two of his three bandmates on edge for him.

“Van’s packed!” Roger threw the door open as he spoke. Even though he was dressed, John still jumped like he’d been caught when Roger came back in. “You three princesses can get your free rides home now.”

“We’re _four_ princesses,” corrected Freddie.

“Four _queens_ ,” said Brian through a giggle.

“Whatever we’re calling ourselves these days, let’s get to the fucking van,” said Roger tiredly.

“Pushy,” said Freddie, faking irritation as he scooped his makeup into the bag he only pulled out for shows. “Here,” Freddie held out the tub of cold cream for John, “get the rest off.” John took the tub from him and took a clumsy handful and rubbed it harshly into his eyes, blinked them open a few times to see if the makeup was melting off as it usually did. While he worked it in, Freddie and Brian took John’s bass and Brian’s guitar out to the van, Freddie made sure to remind John a few times that he’d owe him.

“Is it off?” said John, eyeing Roger through his burning eyes and the mirror.

Roger, stuck in his glittering stage top, took a moment to heave the fabric off over his head, and glance at John through the mirror. “Er, it’s less ‘off’ and more ’smeared’.”

“Great.” John rubbed the cold cream off on the back of his hand, some of it still white, most of it a mix of blues and black from the eyeshadow and liner Freddie put on him.

“Don’t—don’t,” stammered Roger somewhere behind him. The cold cream clouded his vision, he only saw blurred glimpses of Roger approaching him. But once John felt him at his side, Roger’s hand under his chin didn’t surprise him. The tissue Roger dragged across his cheeks, then his eyes, didn’t surprise him either. “Is this stuff safe for your eyes?”

“Sure it is,” said John, not sure at all. “It must be if you put it on your face.”

“God, you put so much,” laughed Roger. He left John frozen for a moment and hurried back to his side with a new tissue. One more pass over John’s lids and he muttered, “okay, all gone.”

John blinked his eyes open, most of the blurriness gone, but not all, and looked up at Roger. “Thanks.”

“Mhm,” said Roger, his hand still under John’s chin, his thumb still grazing the skin there with a gentle touch. A touch John figured he was imagining, or else one that was mostly accident. “Deaky, is this my shirt?”

“Hm?” said John, a little more lost in Roger’s soft expression than he cared to admit.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” Roger reached down, ran his hand across John’s neckline, felt the fabric. “This one’s mine.”

“Oh, is it?” John’s voice was a little thin, still uneven from the way Roger’s hand move dangerously around his chest, trying to decide if the shirt was indeed his.

“Yes,” said Roger with a laugh, “go on, get it off.”

“Off?” said John like he’d never heard the word. There were close shaves with Roger, times when he couldn’t change as privately as he liked, times when he was ducking behind furniture, or rushing off to the loo to try and cover himself. But those times were usually padded with distractions from Brian and Freddie, neither of which were anywhere near him.

“Yes, off,” laughed Roger. He reached for the bottom hem of John’s shirt, rucked it up a bit, John yelped and tugged it back down. “The fuck?” Roger laughed again, moved in closer and yanked the fabric up a bit more, laughing as he went, blissfully unaware of panic overwhelming John.

“Rog—I’ll take it off but turn away,” said John, shaking as he held the fabric down over his bandages.

“Stop being a baby,” said Roger with a scoff and a grin, and a final tug on John’s shirt. Lifting it just enough. Not too far, not far enough to see the slackening hold and the less-than-flat plane John was left with after sweating all night in his bandages. But enough to get a glimpse of the fabric underneath. He paused, held his focus on the bandage peeking out under John’s shirt, and hooked a finger under it. “What’s this?” he snapped the fabric against John’s skin.

“Bandage,” said John, unable to come up with a good lie. Unable to breathe, think, move, do much other than stare up at Roger and wait for his heart to stop.

“Oh,” Roger pulled his hands away, but stayed standing between John’s legs, in his space. “What for?”

“It’s a,” John swallowed, could feel the sweat start to bead on his forehead, “it’s a scar.”

“Why’s it covered?” said Roger.

“Cause it’s a scar,” said John.

Roger cocked his head and grinned. “No I—I mean you’ve got bandages on it. I’d understand not going topless but why’s it bandaged up?”

“Oh, right,” John laughed at himself, though the laugh was mostly anxiety.

“Here, I’ll,” Roger hurried from his invasion of John’s personal space and rummaged through the only bag of their’s left. A bag that was now made up of their sweaty stage clothes but underneath it somewhere was the shirt John was meant to be wearing. “Is it still healing or something?”

“No it’s I’m…” began John, Roger looked up at him from his spot squatted on the floor, elbow deep in sweaty velvet garments, “sorry I—no it’s not—I’m getting it removed.” Removed? thought John, suddenly unsure if that was even possible.

“Removed?” said Roger with a cocked head. He stood with John’s shirt in hand, tossed it to him, and turned his back, gave him the privacy he hadn’t really asked for just yet.

“Y’know…skin grafts,” said John. He shook his head at his own lie. Wondering how he would explain a scar bad enough to need fucking skin graft treatments straight down the middle of his chest, but not significant enough to have ever once told Roger about it before now.

“Fuck, what’d you do?”

“It was a er,” John hurried to shimmy out of Roger’s shirt before pulling his own over his head even faster, “it was a bike accident.”

“Oh?”

“I was riding my bike and just crashed into a skip and, fucked up my chest,” said John. Even in his own mind it was hard to imagine the fake trajectory he would’ve had to take to get a great big plastic surgery-worthy gash across his chest. By the way Roger’s head cocked he assumed he was thinking the same thing.

“I thought you meant motorbike or something,” said Roger, finally.

“Ah,” said John, mostly to himself, “yes that would’ve made more sense wouldn’t it.” John switched his shirt out in an instant and once he’d checked himself in the mirror, made sure there was nothing obvious about the way the fabric clung to him, he balled up Roger’s shirt, tossed it at his bare back.

Roger flinched when it hit him and turned round to pick it up. While he struggled into it, John gathered up their bag of stage clothes, shoved Freddie’s tub of cold cream in there and checked around to make sure they weren’t forgetting anything.

“Didn’t mean to er,” began Roger somewhere behind John, “didn’t mean to pin you like that, didn’t know it was an issue.”

John checked over his shoulder, looked at Roger’s apologetic face in the mirror. “No it’s—it’s not—it’s fine.” He wasn’t sure if it was fine, but he didn’t care as long as Roger smiled back at him. And he did. Big and dopey as usual.

“We still getting drinks after this?” said Roger as he fluffed his hair in the mirror. John watched, a little mesmerised by him no matter how hard he pretended he wasn’t.

“I think so,” he squeaked out. Roger smirked at him through the mirror, all cocky and confident as usual. John couldn’t stare too long. He broke away from his piercing gaze and hurried for the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once Roger proved to Brian that his van was as locked up as a van could possibly be, the four of them headed down the street to the pub they’d seen on the way in. None of them really knew where they were, but they weren’t far from their side of town. They were close enough that John drove himself to the gig, confident enough in his ability to get back home that he’d been able to save him and Brian a long journey in the back of Roger’s van with various drum lugs and cymbal edges digging into their backs and legs.

With strapped wallets and a longer drive home than normal, they kept it one pint. Though John always kept it to one pint. He traced his thumb over the beads of condensation and tried to listen to the notes Freddie gave them all, the notes he promised he hadn’t taken. Brian’s solo was too technical not soulful enough, Roger’s bass drum was inconsistent in tone, John lost the count twice in the beginning of the set.

“Okay and what about you?” said Roger. He sat next to Freddie, across from John, nestled in the corner against the wall comfortably.

“What about me?” said Freddie with a giggle.

“I’ll tighten up my bass drum when you get some fucking vocal coaching,” Roger took a swig of his drink, he’d just barely swallowed it when he added, “you sound like a fucking goat.”

“Jealousy is such a nasty colour on you,” said Freddie.

“We’ve all got things we need to work on,” said John noncommittally.

“Ever the diplomat,” sighed Freddie.

“I mean it,” said John with a grin, “I could stand to loosen up a little on stage, drift a little further towards the crowd, look up at them even.”

“Oh please, you’re wonderful,” said Freddie, grinning back at him.

“Don’t go wandering off to the front of the stage, I like the company around the kit,” said Roger before knocking back the last of his pint. John smiled at him, a little more shy than usual, Roger winked back at him and laughed as he slammed his pint glass down.

John looked down, focused on the ring his glass left on the table, focused on the table, the grain of it, the scratches in it, the way his hand rested on it, anything to put Roger’s cheeky grin out of his head. He’d think too far into it if he let it fester. And there was never anything deeper with Roger. He was young, pretty, and he flirted without knowing. Any touch, any comment, any look John might wish were a hint that maybe they were on the same page, it was all accident, all surface.

With their notes passed around and their drinks polished off, they walked back to the carpark. Once Roger’s van was in sight, Brian scurried up to the backdoor as if standing by it might somehow ensure his guitar was still in there.

“Honestly, if you’re so worried about it just bring it in the fucking pub next time,” said Roger as he unlocked the doors.

“Oh right, like _that’s_ a safe place for it,” said Brian. He let Roger swing the doors open and breathed a sigh of relief when everything was exactly where they’d left it. He heaved his guitar out and swiped John’s keys to go stuff it in his backseat while John wrangled his bass out from the tight spot Freddie’d shoved it in earlier.

“Sorry dear,” said Freddie through a yawn. “Only place it would fit.”

“I’m sure,” said John with a bit of bite in his tone as he stumbled back from the force of freeing his guitar case.

“It’s out now,” said Freddie with a grin. “And _you’re very welcome for loading it for you._ ”

“Yes, thank you, Fred,” sighed John.

“Anytime, darling,” he said with a pat to John’s shoulder. “C’mon, Rog, I’m exhausted.” Freddie didn’t wait for him. He rounded the corner and hopped up in the passenger’s seat while Roger locked the back doors up again.

Roger hooked his keys back on his middle finger and rested against his bumper. “D’you know how to get back to town or do you need to follow behind for awhile?”

“Brian I think knows the way,” said John.

“Well, if you get lost, you know my number,” said Roger.

“And if you get lost, you know mine,” laughed John.

“You were good tonight,” said Roger, his words came out a little too fast. Awkward in a way, clunky even.

“Didn’t feel like I was anything special,” said John.

“But you are,” said Roger, before quickly adding, “ _were_ —you were special. Tonight.”

“Oh,” said John, letting out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, “thanks, you were really—really good too.”

“Mm.” Roger drummed his fingers on the edge of his bumper, looked at John with an entirely unreadable expression, stood up straight, and took a step towards John. A step that made John’s breath catch, that made him want to take a step closer too, made him curious and hopeful for a brief moment. A very brief moment before Roger looked past John at Brian, took a step back, and mumbled, “better go before Brian throws a fit.”

“Freddie too,” added John with an awkward laugh.

“Right,” he laughed but it didn’t reach his eyes, faded faster than it’d come on, “well g’night, Deaky.”

“Night, Rog.”

Roger waited a beat before circling his van. Once he had, John started towards his own car, listening carefully for the sounds of Roger opening his door, closing it again, and starting his van. He didn’t know what he’d gain from it but it felt like he ought to listen. He opened his back door and threaded his guitar into his backseat, side by side with Brian’s.

“Finally!” said Brian from the passenger seat. John slammed the door shut again and looked up to watch Roger’s van leave the lot. It felt like ages before it disappeared around the corner, before he sat in the driver’s seat and fumbled for his keys for a moment until Brian handed them to him. “You know the way back?”

“I thought you did.”

“Great,” sighed Brian. He popped the glove box and groaned as he unraveled the map.

John turned the radio on and let Brian try and navigate while he drove in the general direction of where they ought to be. Both hoping they’d see something familiar soon and could ditch the map entirely. And once they saw a particular intersection, at very least Brian was able to spot them on a map and get them on a course home.

“Roger should’ve let us follow him,” said Brian.

“I told him we didn’t need it,” said John.

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

“I don’t know,” said John with a laugh. “I didn’t think it’d be so tedious.”

“Tedious for me, no work _at all_ for you,” said Brian.

“Have they always lived together?” said John, thinking out loud. Letting his thoughts linger on Roger more than he should.

“No, not at all. Fred lived with his mum for a long while, mum and dad. Then he and Roger moved into this flatshare. They shared a bedroom with one other bloke, it was _horrible._ ”

“Can’t’ve been that bad, Freddie’s got such high standards,” said John.

“Turn right,” Brian waved his hand to the right as if saying it out loud weren’t enough for John to pick up on. “It was that bad. I lived there for a few months as well while I was waiting to find a place with Chrissie. Roger moved out pretty soon after with Jo, Fred left to live with Mary.”

“What—” John nearly hit the brakes, “Joe? Who’s Joe?”

“Jo?” said Brian as if he should know. “His ex girlfriend?” John just shrugged and shook his head. “I guess they did break up pretty soon after you joined up with us. Really sad about that, they were so good together but, anyway they split. Roger needed somewhere to stay so Freddie moved out to live with him.”

“He just moved out?”

“Between us, I think he wanted a way out of there,” said Brian.

John’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Is it just me or is Freddie… _that way?”_ He’d wanted to ask for awhile now but it didn’t seem fair to bother anyone with Freddie’s business when Freddie never bothered him about his own.

“Think so,” said Brian quietly. “I’ll let him say it though.”

“Of course,” added John quickly, hoping to convey that he’d asked it out of curiosity not a desire to feel superior in knowing what Freddie avoided. He tended to forget that it bothered Freddie, only because it never bothered him. He’d grown up wanting boys and no one had ever told him there was anything wrong with it until he changed his name, by then it was far too late to ingrain a sense of internal shame, but not too late to make him cover it up, shy away from it, and pine uselessly for people he was too scared to even broach the subject with. “D’you,” John cleared his throat, “d’you think Roger’s that way too?”

“Roger?” scoffed Brian. “What makes you say that?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. Sometimes I…I don’t know.” John could feel Brian staring at him but kept his eyes straight ahead on the road.

“Are you that way?” said Brian, his voice warming up the silence.

“C’mon,” John laughed, “you remember me in secondary school but you don’t remember the boyfriend I had?”

“I do,” said Brian with a thin laugh, “I don’t know what the rules are though since that was… _before_.”

“Maybe some people switch off,” said John lazily. “I didn’t.”

“Well, sorry to say it, but I think Roger’s a dead end.” Brian shifted in his seat and tapped John when it was time to merge onto the motorway.

“I figured I just,” John huffed, shook his hands out before tightening them around the wheel again, “must be seeing things.”

“You think you’ve seen something?”

John shrugged. “In my head I guess.”

“Yeah,” said Brian with an apologetic tone. “But think of it this way. Even if he were into you, it’d last a solid month before he fucked it up. I mean Jo, the longest relationship he’s ever had, that ship practically sunk itself. He just showed up one day said she ‘wasn’t for him’. He’s not built for anything that’s not incredibly intense and fleeting.”

“I guess,” said John, eyes trained hard on the road. Brian was right, he had to be. Roger loved women and they loved him and it ended there really. Anything John saw between them was an accident, was something he’d inflated or outright created in his own head. So blinded by Roger’s warm friendship and his striking looks. “Fuck—just forget I said any of this, fuckin’ embarrassing.”

“It’s not embarrassing,” laughed Brian. “I’m fairly sure Freddie had a crush on him too. One more pint and _I_ might’ve done as well.” John laughed with him but felt his cheeks heat up. “This why you two took so long to leave the dressing room? Off making eyes at each other?”

“No,” said John with laugh that snuck up on him, louder than before, “no, we’ve never made eyes at each other. I—I put his shirt on by mistake, it was a bit of a process to switch them out.”

“Oh—shit—did—” began Brian.

“It was fine,” interrupted John. “He saw the bandages and I told him—fuck I told him I ‘got into a bike accident’ and was having this ‘scar’ on my chest grafted away. So if he asks about it…”

“Wow,” said Brian, his voice high and tense as he avoided laughing, “he bought that?”

“I sold it,” said John. “And if he didn’t, then he didn’t ask for the truth.”

“You’ve got to have a better lie stocked up, that’s fucking terrible.”

Brian only teased him about his bike accident for a minute or two more. But, knowing once the novelty of it wore off, Brian wouldn’t tease him again, not for something like this. It was easy to confide in him because of that, because of his panicky fear of making John uncomfortable or needlessly embarrassed. John figured that was a rather unusual trait in a guitarist, in a rock star, and figured he might one day find out how to thank Brian for it. To keep John’s mind off the embarrassment, off the twisted up feeling in his stomach. But there was a relief in dropping Brian off and driving the rest of the way home, alone, with the radio turned down and the thoughts he normally kept at bay flooded forward.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! So here's the second chapter <33 I hope you enjoy it, it's a little on the long side but I don't think anyone'll mind that too much! Anyway if you enjoy it please comment and thanks to anyone who's commented on the first chapter <333

“Deaky,” husked Roger, his voice gravelly and low in John’s ear. “John.” He sighed, got a grip on John’s thigh, and thrust in deeper, and deeper, deep enough that John whimpered, that every inch of him shivered when he hit that spot, deep, deep inside him.

John panted, reached up and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, held on tight and rolled his hips up, desperate to meet Roger’s.

Roger’s grip on his thigh turned from sharp and bruising to numb, his whimpering, his groaning went from a whisper to nothing at all, that wonderful feeling deep inside John grew fainter and fainter and fainter.

And then he opened his eyes, blinked once or twice as the ringing of his alarm became more and more noticeable. He fumbled blindly for it and squeezed the off button as hard as his sleep-weakened hand could. He had class, he had to get up, and yet he’d never felt more exhausted, more unable to move much less attend and focus in his calculus class.

He’d had similar dreams before. Once was a fluke, twice was a coincidence, four five six eight times was more of a pattern that John liked to ignore. But they were always so vivid, so lifelike, so intense. Always left him a little more dazed than he’d normally be, eager to get his fingers as deep as Roger’d been.

His eyes fluttered closed as his hand slipped under the waistband of his pants and curled back up into him. Moving slow and pressing hard when he felt that wonderful spot. But he wanted more, always did. Wanted that sharp, intense pleasure of that spot even deeper. Somewhere his fingers could never reach, somewhere he could just barely feel aching to be stroked. Somewhere—

“John, you awake in there?” said John’s roommate, his words broken up by knocks. “I need a lift out to campus, if you don’t mind parking over there.”

“Y—yes, that’s fine,” said John, withdrawing his hand like he’d been walked in on. “I’ll get dressed, just a minute.” John held his breath and waited for the footsteps in the hall to move away from his door. Once they had, he admitted defeat, accepted that his fingers weren’t doing what he wanted and he didn’t have time for any other fun. He ignored the uncomfortable, unsatisfied feeling at his center, and cleared his throat, rubbed his face, and forced himself into some clothes.

John could barely look at his reflection while he fiddled with his hair, examined the blemishes along his jaw, the bags under his eyes. There was something embarrassing about dreams like that. So far removed from reality but so vivid so desperate. For something he couldn’t have. Something, as Brian pointed out, he may not even really want.

~~~

The beginning of the tedious lecture in his calculus two class was hell. His mind so tempted to drift back to the warm, welcoming hold of the fictional version of Roger he’d dreamt up the night before. But he knew better than to linger, and he knew _much better_ than to get behind in a maths lecture. By the time class let out, he’d focused, he’d distracted himself, and his mind was less worried about wondering how that dream might’ve ended and more worried about how he’d do on the exam in two weeks when ever second of the lecture felt like Greek.

He floated between the few familiar faces in the class, adding very little to shallow conversation, then meandered out of the lecture hall and through the building. He was meant to get proper work done for his electrics course before he joined in on some study group his friend formed for their next to impossible calculus class. He was never too fond of days that were so focused on his schoolwork and the friends he had outside of the band. It felt fake in a way, like a second life he wasn’t entirely invested in. And perhaps being a bassist was the reality that ought to have felt silly or fleeting but without fail, after a few hours of talking about wiring and voltages he was miles away.

“John!” called someone down the hall. “John, hold on!”

He turned and sighed when Brian’s enormous curls came bounding down the hall at him. They bumped into each other occasionally in the maths halls. Brian’s teaching assistant positions found him there more often than not. John waited at the far end of the hall for Brian to skid to a stop at his feet.

“Where’s the fire?” teased John.

“I’ve just got us the most amazing booking,” said Brian. He tugged John’s arm and opened the hall door, led them out onto the pavement.

“Where is it?” said John, following him out into the crisp air. It was warming up as the months went on but only slightly. Bit by bit.

“It’s just some university gig up north,” said Brian.

“Well,” John adjusted the bag strapped to his shoulder, “I can see why you’re so thrilled.”

“I’m thrilled because we’re getting paid more than we’ve ever got,” said Brian, walking purposefully, a step in front of John who couldn’t quite keep up with his ridiculously long stride.

“How much more?” said John, speeding up to keep even with Brian.

“About ten quid each,” said Brian, still proud.

“You’re _thrilled_ about an extra ten quid?” said John with a cocked head.

“Excuse me?” laughed Brian. “Exactly how much money you’ve got saved that you can turn your nose to ten quid?”

“I’m not turning my nose up at it, but I’m not popping champagne either.” John nearly tripped over his own feet when Brian made a sharp turn and waited only a moment before hurrying across the street, John trailing behind him and rushing to catch back up on the other side of the road. “Where the fuck are we going?”

“To Rog and Freddie’s stall to give them the good news,” said Brian, head held high.

“I don’t think you’ll get the celebratory reaction out of them that you’re expecting,” said John with a breathy laugh, trying hard to keep pace with Brian and lagging behind with each word.

“It’s less a celebration I want and more an eating of crow,” said Brian as he made another sharp turn around a corner and nearly crushed John against the stone of building.

“Who’ll be eating this crow?” said John, no longer too eager to get right up next to Brian and instead content in his halfstep behind him.

“Roger,” said Brian pointedly. “He makes all of our fucking bookings, always says Freddie’s not serious enough over the phone and I’m too soft— _well_ —which one of us has booked our highest paying gig?”

“This is a pissing contest of olympic scale here, Bri,” said John through a giggle.

“A pissing contest that I’ve won,” said Brian without a hint of irony.

Brian walked as fast and proud as he started the entire trek to the market. John asked him to slow down once or twice but each time it only lasted a few steps before Brian was back on his rampage. Part of John wondered why he bothered keeping up, why he didn’t just break off and head back towards the library to finish up the work he’d put off for three days now, work he promised himself he’d finish before he had to join in on that study group. But most of John knew he stayed, and he made feeble attempts to keep pace with Brian, because at the end of their little journey he’d see Roger.

“If they’re on break I’ll rob them,” said Brian as they passed by stall after stall, eyes locked on Roger and Freddie’s stall, far enough in the distance that nothing could really be made out. But as they got closer, Freddie’s figure came into view, then Roger’s, and then John found he didn’t have so much trouble keeping up anymore.

Freddie waved them down, all grins, Roger barely turned away from the customer he was talking close with. A garment in her hand, a tenner in his, a grin on his face, a blush on hers.

“What brings you two by?” said Freddie.

“I’ve got good news,” said Brian, though John never heard his words past that point, too focused on the woman jotting something down on scrap paper for Roger. He took it, pocketed it, muttered something else that made the woman laugh, kissed her cheek and sent her on her way. She was too dazed by Roger’s attention to offer any apology when her heel dug into John’s foot on her way out.

“Did you make the sale or just get her number?” said Freddie.

“A means to an end,” said Roger as he slipped the ten pound note into their lockbox, and slipped the scrap of paper the woman had jotted her number down on into the bin nearby. John knew he should’ve feel relieved, and couldn’t be so touchy and jealous even at the idea of Roger’s exploits, but knowing that number was thrown out did settle his nerves and make him grin, just a bit. “So, why’ve we got visitors, what’s happened?”

“Well, remember when you said I was too soft to book any gigs?” said Brian.

“Yes,” scoffed Roger.

“Guess who just booked our highest paying gig?” said Brian.

“Highest paying?” said Freddie.

“How much more?” Roger crossed his arms over his chest.

“Ten quid each—but it’s still technically more!” said Brian.

“Wow,” deadpanned Roger, “we’d be lost without you.”

“Fuck off,” said Brian.

“You’ve single handedly paid my rent,” said Roger with a smirk.

“Be nice,” scolded Freddie. “Go on, Bri, when is it, where is it, all that jazz.”

“It’s up north, a university gig, it’s in about three weeks,” said Brian.

“We need to practice,” said Roger, something he said just about every time all four of them were in a room. “Y’know you two threw out those covers you wanted and John and I haven’t had a chance to run them through all together, and now we’ve got the show next week, the show the week after that, this university gig that I’m sure _I_ will be driving us to so that ten quid’s going right back into the petrol costs by the way—”

“Stop being so negative,” groaned Freddie.

“I’m not being negative—we need to practice our fucking setlist,” said Roger with a bit more bite.

“You and John are free to practice the rhythm section all on your own,” said Freddie. “You don’t need the full band each and every time we decide on a new cover.”

“I’m not playing the fucking song if we don’t practice it beforehand, all together,” said Roger.

“No one’s fucking suggesting that, we’re not mad,” said Freddie, sounding more and more tired. “You’ve just been barking at me for days to get us into a practice room for two fucking songs, maybe you’d be less anxious if you and John ran them through.”

Roger glared at Freddie, Freddie glared right back, both let the silence steep for a moment or two before Roger huffed and turned to John. “You up for it?”

“Up for…” John’s voice trailed off as his imagination tried to get the better of him.

“If you’re free today we can run the songs through, we’ve only got a few days before the actual show so.”

“I’m—Yes, I’m free, nothing planned just yet so—we can go whenever you’re free,” said John. He’d put his work off three days, it could go a fourth. Did he understand his calculus lecture notes? No. But how could he be sure going to that study group would’ve even helped? No point wasting time there when it could be better spent playing bass.

Even to himself, that justification was a hard sell.

“Perfect,” Roger lit up, “Fred and I’ll keep the shop open a few more hours—”

“Until three,” said Freddie.

“Until three,” repeated Roger. “So you go save a spot in a practice room somewhere in the music hall and I’ll meet you there.”

“O-okay,” said John with an awkward smile. He was always quicker to blush, quicker to get flustered, quicker to get annoyed with himself and disappointed in his own boyishness on days after he’d had such vivid dreams about Roger, when he let his fantasies get the better of him. His one consolation was Roger was never observant enough to notice anything wrong, much less to guess the reason why.

“Now that that’s sorted,” said Brian, “why don’t we all thank me for finding this gig.”

“You want a thank you?” said Roger, his incredibly short fuse lighting itself.

“I think I’m owed one, yes,” said Brian.

“You want me to thank you for doing your job?” said Roger, a little louder.

“Since when is being our manager my fucking job?” said Brian.

“It’s all of our jobs—”

“Then why do you insist you’re the only one who can do it—”

“I’m not the only one who _should_ do it, I’m the only one with the force to actually get it done—”

“I _just_ booked a gig for us—”

“One gig after three fucking years and you want a medal? Shall I just suck your cock here and now—you know you’re really rivaling Alexander the Great with this accomplishment—”

“You’re such a fucking child. I’m sorry you feel threatened that someone else in this fucking band can do the work you’ve been claiming is tedious and difficult—”

“Right, after making one gig you’re suddenly an expert—”“

“Y’know this is all because I’m a better guitarist than you and Freddie’s a better pianist than you,” said Brian.

_“Excuse me!”_ shouted Roger.

“Boys, please,” sighed Freddie.

“I’m the fucking drummer, I play our drums, I don’t give a shit if you two are better at instruments that aren’t my fucking job—”

“I’ll see you all later,” said John under his breath, the only one who heard his words was Freddie, caught in the middle and rubbing his temples. John took a step back, then another, then another, as Roger and Brian’s back and forth bickering began to snowball. Freddie waved a silent and exhausted goodbye in his direction when he saw John hurrying out undetected.

~~~

Why had he done this? His bass strapped around his shoulder, resting in his lap, his work propped up on a music stand that kept sliding down each time John made a mark, the echoy groan of the bassoon being, evidently, murdered in room next door, it all made John wonder if practicing was worth it. If the band was worth it, if his sore shoulders and slowly forming headache were worth the existential dread he felt trying to work out the nearly overdue assignment while a first year bassoonist thoughtlessly existed in the room next to the one he’d saved for him and Roger.

The idea was to save the room early and use it to study and do the work he just couldn’t seem to stop putting off. That way he could have his cake and eat it too. Finish his work and spend the afternoon with Roger, he’d find some other time to make up for the missed studying session with his classmates, and if not he’d just fail the course. He could live with that if it meant an afternoon just the two of them. But the longer the low, a-melodic, droning of the bassoon leaked into his practice room the more he was certain that not only was Roger going to forget to show up, but any work he, by some miracle, accomplished would be all wrong and would need redoing. He’d fail both classes and get a migraine from the fluorescent lights in the process.

“Hiya,” said Roger, flying into the practice room with a grin on his face, “been waiting long?”

Two hours. “No, not too long,” said John with a grin and a sigh of relief at the comfort that flooded him when Roger shut the door and started rummaging around his bag for his drumsticks.

“How long’s that bassooner been down the hall, thing’s fucking loud,” said Roger.

“Bassooner?”

“Bassooner, bassoonist, bassoonite,” shrugged Roger. “Six of one. Point is it sounds like shit.”

“It’s a bassoon, it’s supposed to,” said John with a laugh.

“How’d you get sheet music?” said Roger, jerking his chin in the general direction of the notes John had up on the music stand.

“It’s—it’s not sheet music, it’s homework,” said John shyly. He knew he shouldn’t, but he did feel childish doing homework. The three of them had graduated what felt like ages ago. John felt like their collective little brother when he interrupted practice to sit an exam. He hurried to stuff it all back in his bag as if he ought to hide it, though Roger didn’t seem to notice his frantic movement.

“To be honest, I’m glad we’re doing this alone,” said Roger.

“You are?” squeaked John.

“Course I am,” Roger sat behind the kit, adjusting the seat and tapping his toes on the pedals, “it’s always so much easier to practice with a good idea of what it out to sound like in my head. It’s so tedious having to hear Brian’s interpretation of what a drum fill should be.”

John laughed louder than he should’ve and hoped it covered the flustered blush on his face and the shake in his fingers. But Roger wouldn’t notice, he wasn’t looking, he didn’t care the way John did. And when he counted them off and focused in hard on his drums, there wasn’t a doubt in John’s mind that it didn’t matter one bit to him who was behind the bass as long as it was playing.

“Oh and Freddie told me to apologise to you for getting into a shouting match with Brian,” said Roger.

“Apologise?” scoffed John. “For what?”

“I don’t know,” Roger shrugged. “He’s just worried you’ll get scared off by it or something like that. Tense work environment.”

John could only laugh. “Well, I’m not scared. I didn’t want to sit and listen to you to bicker but it didn’t frighten me.”

“That’s what I told Freddie,” sighed Roger. “Fred never really had shouting matches in his house so he looks at them like a biblical plague he’s got to cure for us all. When really sometimes Brian and I just need to shout and pretend it never happened.”

“I—I’m not bothered by it but I wasn’t surrounded by shouting as a child either,” said John.

“Oh no?” Roger cocked his head. “You seemed the type.”

“What type?” John laughed. “The type to shout? I’ve never been told I seem that type.”

“No _definitely_ not the type to shout,” said Roger, “but I thought your parents must be divorced or something along those lines. Something to get the pot stirring at family events.”

“Why’s that?” said John with a dry swallow. He didn’t like how spot on Roger was, didn’t like how something about him made it clear to the world that he dreaded Christmas, he dreaded summer, he dreaded Easter, and any birthdays that might force him home, force him to speak to his mother and father and force him to listen to what they had to say for days on end.

“You’re a musician, a proper one now,” said Roger. “I don’t know if any of us get on with our parents.”

“Oh—oh that,” said John with a sigh, “I—they don’t love it but I’m still getting my degree so.”

“What d’you mean ‘oh that’, what else could there’ve been?”

“Nothing—nothing—I just didn’t know where you were going with it,” said John clumsily. “But—er—I thought you got on well with your mum? We toured Truro from her house.”

“I do get on with my mum,” said Roger pointedly.

“Oh,” said John, slowly realising he’d hit a nerve, “I—I don’t get on with my dad either.”

“Even with your electrical engineering degree?” teased Roger.

“Even with that,” laughed John.

“Hm,” said Roger a bit absently. “You got your mum though.” John answered with his silence, and Roger sucked his teeth. “Why’re we talking about this?” he laughed. “Look at our faces, we’re all torn up thinking of home.”

“You started it,” laughed John.

“And I’m ending it. God I hate depressive shit like that, what’s the point,” his drumsticks buzzed on his snare drum. “Alright, Deaky, you ready for round one?”

“As ever,” said John through a smile. Roger counted them off.

John focused on staying in time while trying to remember what the hell came next. He remembered the few runs he had to do but got lost on them when Roger filled in his drums underneath. At least he did until they ran it a few more times and got more used to the tempo and tone of the song in their hands, and feet in Roger’s case. They brought it up to speed and Roger sang the melody as best he could. His words got garbled and the notes dropped off when a difficult transition would come up, but otherwise they sounded good.

They did the same with the next song they were meant to cover. And ended up running through their setlist for the next show just to be sure. John wouldn’t say it, and he didn’t have to, but practicing with just the rhythm, no melodies, no harmonies, no treble at all, made it much easier to learn the music, learn how it was meant to sound, how it was structured. And when six rolled around they decided to put a cap on it there. Hands all rubbed raw from playing too much and too forcefully.

“I don’t know about you but I’m starving,” groaned Roger as he stood and stretched his back out.

“I don’t know about you but I’ve got about five quid on me,” said John.

“Five quid’ll buy you the world, John,” said Roger with a grin. “There’s that cafe in the building over, everything’s dirt cheap. I wouldn’t recommend getting any meat products from there though.”

“Wow, you’re really selling it,” teased John as he clipped his guitar case closed. On the walk between buildings Roger recounted all he could from the menu of the cafe. Menu being a strong word. All of the food was prepackaged and suspicious looking, the only thing that could’ve pushed it over the edge into ‘cafe’ was it’s sign by the door that named itself as such.

Roger warned him to buy only ‘safe’ food as he’d got food poisoning more than once trying the ham, tuna salad, and roast beef sandwiches.

“I knew roast beef that cheap was too good to be true…but I dream,” said Roger, forlornly looking into the little refrigerated box at the back of the store. After exhausting the list of what was untrustworthy and marking everything off, John bought himself a sandwich that didn’t look too grey, an orange, and indulged on one of the coke bottles he saw by the register. When Roger tried to nonchalantly hand him a second bottle, he slide it up to the register as well.

Roger opened their bottled on his keys in two quick motions and handed one off to John. “Thanks for that, I’ve not had one of these in months.”

“These’re cheaper than beer you know,” said John.

“Once cola gets me drunk, I’ll switch,” laughed Roger.

“You really not going to buy actual food, Rog?” said John, adjusting his grip on his guitar and watching the way Roger stared at the food he was holding.

“Not unless you’ve got another fiver in your wallet,” said Roger with a cheeky grin.

“We can share it,” said John.

“You already got me the coke, I’m set,” said Roger, waving away the offer.

“You wouldn’t want a bite?” said John. “Even if I made you sit with me while I ate it all?”

“Of course not,” said Roger, more defensively, “I’m not a street urchin, I can control myself.”

“Okay, then come on,” said John, leading them both through the building to an empty bench along one of the walls. Nestled under the stairs, by a corkboard with endless announcements on it. He sat first, situated his guitar under the bench while Roger took the spot next to him and spread out just a bit, made himself at home.

Roger claimed to be fine, full even on his one soda. But John noticed the way his ears perked up at the sound of John unwrapping his sandwich.

“You’re sure?” said John as he took an enormous bite. “It’s really good.”

“I’m fine, really I’m not even hungry,” said Roger. His words were convincing, his tone was self assured and confident. But the way his stomach growled, the way that noise echoed between the wall and the underside of the stairwell gave him away. John choked on a laugh and Roger tried to keep a grin off his face, “okay perhaps I’m a _bit_ peckish.”

“Take some,” said John through chuckles. He handed the other half to Roger.

“If it’ll make _you_ feel better I’ll have a bit,” said Roger, his mouth already watering.

“It would make my day,” said John. Roger took a big bite, filled his mouth like a child, and chewed painstakingly. “That half’s yours, you can go slower.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Roger spewing crumbs onto the floor as he tried to speak through the bread.

“Sure you wouldn’t,” laughed John. He took the last bite of his own half and worked open the peel on the orange he’d bought. He’d never been a fan of fruit as messy as an orange but they were the only fruit to have never disappointed him by being over or underripe. A mess but a safe bet. “You want a segment?”

“I’m stuffed now,” said Roger, maybe two bites of his sandwich left.

“Right, and you were stuffed after a few sips of your coke too,” said John, his thumb slid in under the tough orange peel, wriggling it off bit by bit.

“This time I mean it,” said Roger.

“Here,” John tore a segment off and held it out for Roger.

“Seriously, I’m not eating more of your dinner,” said Roger.

“This is a gift, it’s rude to deny it,” said John through a grin.

“I’m stuffed, really,” said Roger again. John inched closer with his offer of an orange segment.

“Eat it, you’re skin and bones.”

“That’s the fashion,” said Roger.

“Go on,” John held the segment up to his face and giggled out another, “eat it.”

“My hands are full,” said Roger, holding onto his last bite of his sandwich with both hands, all ten fingers crowding it.

“Your mouth isn’t,” said John.

“I’m not gonna eat it out of your hand like I’m a zoo animal,” said Roger.

“Have a bit or I’m not leaving,” said John.

Roger stared back at him, waiting for John to crack and rescind his demands, but he wouldn’t. And when he didn’t the lingering grin on Roger’s face became more of a memory. Fading slowly as he leant forward, face full of an emotion John hadn’t seen on him before, not really. Maybe once or twice before a show but even then it was so fleeting it wasn’t worth remembering. He parted his lips, and bit gently into the orange slice. Gentle and shallow before taking it all into his mouth, his tongue accidentally brushing against John’s thumb.

“Not very dignified,” laughed Roger. “Good orange though.”

“Yeah,” croaked John, his appetite suddenly absent.

“Why’re you so red?” said Roger casually.

“Dunno,” replied John with a cocked head.

“Don’t ask for what you can’t handle,” teased Roger. Teasing, joking, but his words landed with a certain weight in John. “Did you drive in today?”

“Huh?” said John, lost in thought.

“Did you drive today?” said Roger. “I was looking for a ride home, but I can take the train if not.”

“I drove,” said John a bit too quickly.

“How many orange slices would I have to eat out of your hand to have earned a ride home?” laughed Roger.

“I’m trying to prevent you getting scurvy and this is the thanks I get,” sighed John, trying to hide his tensed up muscles and his clenched jaw.

~~~

John didn’t ask, but Roger carried his guitar out to the car. Payment for the ride he said. John made some comment about preferring the money it took to fill his tank. Off hand and joking, distracting himself and hopefully Roger from how warm it felt to imagine he’d carried his heavy bass out just for John’s sake. Just to make him grin. No matter how abundantly clear it was that Roger merely felt guilty for mooching food and a carride home.

The drive was short, a forty minute walk became a ten minute drive that John could’ve done in his sleep, that only afforded them two and a half songs on the radio before john turned into the complex he was sure Freddie and Roger lived in.

“This one?” said John pulling up to the first building on the block.

“Next one,” said Roger. “I’m hurt. You’ve been here enough to remember which door it is.”

“As if you could get to mine without a map,” said John as he pulled up to the next door down the line. He rolled to a slow stop, as if the few extra seconds with Roger in his passenger seat might be worth something to him in the future. Like one day he might look back fondly on those few seconds of lingering silence, just sensing Roger’s presence and wishing he were closer.

“Why don’t,” Roger cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, “why don’t you come up?”

“To…your flat?” said John with his hands tight around the steering wheel. “Where you live?”

“Yes, where I live?” Roger laughed. “We’ve got tea” he offered, a weak grin on his face.

“I—sure—yes, sure,” stammered John as he haphazardly flew into the open space on the curb and threw his car into park. It was a jerky motion that he was sure Roger would tease him for. But he didn’t, he stayed quiet and stoic and took a big breath out as he opened his door and stood on the curb.

A pit of anxiety settled in John’s stomach as he took his key from the ignition and followed Roger inside. He knew what he wanted this to be, knew how he wanted it to start the moment they closed the door behind them, and how he wanted it to end in Roger’s room, and every detail in between filled out with each step he took by Roger’s side, up the steps and down the hall to their flat. And he knew what would really happen.

He’d get offered tea, get told a neverending story by Freddie, get offered some meager amount of rice or eggs or some food equally cheap and available in bulk. He’d get offered a whiskey or vodka that he’d decline and cite his drive home as the reason. And then he’d take that drive home, alone.

“Oolong, Darjeeling, Earl Grey?” said Roger, a few steps ahead of John.

“Er—whatever’s best,” said John as he shed his jacket and draped it over the back of Roger and Freddie’s ratty old couch.

“I might dip into Freddie’s secret stash, he’s got actual quality shit from his mum in there,” said Roger. “And pick an album while you’re out there.”

“A—alright,” said John, not quite loud enough for Roger to hear in the little kitchenette. John settled on the floor by the boxes of records and thumbed through them. “Is it really much of a secret stash if you use it so willy nilly?” said John, trying to keep the conversation moving, to keep him mind occupied with the present and not what he wished the present were.

“Well don’t tell him I know about it and it’ll stay a secret stash,” said Roger. John heard the stovetop click on.

“He can hear you,” laughed John.

“What?” laughed Roger. “No he can’t, he’s out with Mary.”

“Oh—right now?” said John.

“Right now,” said Roger. “And don’t tell him I know about his secret stash.”

He wanted that to be something, wanted there to be a reason Roger invited him up when he knew the flat would be empty. And he hoped and prayed that that reason wasn’t just their friendship. But it always was. And he shouldn’t have such a feeling of disappointment. As if friendship wasn’t enough as if it wasn’t worth anything. His friendship with Roger was so solid, so dependable and fun. Why was he so focused on making it something it could never be, so busy wallowing in the unrealistic nature of his barely hidden fantasies that he couldn’t appreciate what he did have.

“What’d you pick?” said Roger, reappearing with two steeping cups of tea. He sat them amidst the magazine and newspaper clippings on his and Freddie’s coffee table.

“Er,” John looked at the record he’d blindly left his thumb on, “haven’t decided just yet.”

“Anything’ll do,” said Roger, “just no opera.”

Roger sank into the couch, waiting on John, who suddenly had no musical knowledge. He couldn’t think of a band he enjoyed, couldn’t think of a band anyone enjoyed. The names on the records all blurred together until he saw The Beatles. A record only about five years old with a tracklist that had entirely escaped his memory. He set it on the turntable and wondered if he liked this album, wondered briefly if he’d even heard it, though he knew he had a copy of his own at home.

“Good choice,” said Roger, “not a very niche choice though.”

“Didn’t know it had to be,” said John blankly. He fell into the couch by Roger and let the music play for a moment or two while his nerves settled.

“Hey how’s your er, your scar thing?” said Roger, gesturing across his chest vaguely.

“My scar?” said John before quickly realising and adding, “Oh right! My scar! It’s er—it’s healing, it’s real…healed.”

“How much longer d’you think ’til it’s totally out of the woods?” said Roger.

“Er, a few more months?” John offered the number up nervously. He knew nothing about the fake skin grafts he claimed were possible, he knew even less about the recovery time and could only hope Roger didn’t care to find out or research it on his own.

“That’s nice,” said Roger, nodding his head a bit. The music kept on. “Y’know this song was on the radio when I had my first proper kiss, and now that’s all I can fucking think of when I hear it.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” John turned to him just a bit, intrigued by the story more intrigued by the storyteller.

“Well, the kiss was fine, but we went a bit further and I totally—God it was a disaster,” said Roger, wincing at the memory. “No idea what to do.”

“I’m sure you did fine,” said John, a bit awkward as they waded into territory he didn’t know how to navigate. His first kiss had been at sixteen, long past what most of his peers considered normal, with a boyfriend he’d already had for about three months prior, and immediately after he’d burst into sobs and confessed every last detail of himself to the poor kid. Barely sixteen himself, trying to wrap his head around John’s real name and identity in the backseat of his car. Since then he hadn’t gone near anyone, hadn’t even attempted, just in case. He had no real commiserating experiences and even if he did, they’d still be so far removed from anything Roger’d done in his days.

“I did fine enough,” said Roger with shrug, “when you’re so young, it’s really only the effort that counts, everyone’s so horrible at it.”

“Yeah,” said John noncommittally, scrambling for a new topic, something he could actually talk about.

“Y’know it always felt kind of strange to me,” Roger cleared his throat, turned towards him a bit, “that I should be so good with one thing and have never even tried the other.”

“What things?” said John, his mouth going dry as he stared up with pink cheeks at Roger.

Roger smirked, nestled in closer, casually stretched his arm over the back of the couch, “what things do you think?”

“I—I really wouldn’t know,” said John, his hands clammy, his heart pounding. There was only one thing he could’ve been talking about. Right? There was no way John was somehow misreading or hallucinating this, there was just no way this was in his head the way Brian reassured him it was.

“I think you do,” said Roger with a laugh. “I mean don’t you ever wonder if your—your _skills_ are universal or if you’d be a total flop on the other side?”

“I—I can’t say I’ve ever...” trailed John.

Roger eyed him for a moment, waiting for some reassurance, but John couldn’t find a way to give it. Roger looked down, fiddled with the zipper on his jacket and leaned away from John. “Just talking shite, really.”

“I—I haven’t thought about it because I don’t have any skills or talents like you’ve got,” said John, words coming out almost as fast as he was thinking them,

“Don’t be modest—” began Roger.

“I’m a virgin,” said John quickly.

“A what?” said Roger with a cocked head. But John didn’t bother repeating himself, they both knew what he said. “How?”

“You know how,” spat John.

“No I mean how—how _you_ ,” said Roger his head still cocked.

“How me?” said John, his tongue feeling a bit thick, his breath coming in shorter bursts than he’d like.

“You real religious or something?” said Roger, scooting a bit closer.

“No it just—it never happened,” said John quietly.

“That’s…” began Roger, “actually sort of sweet.”

“Oh please,” scoffed John. “It’s pathetic. I’m fucking 20 years old and I’ve kissed one person and fucked none.”

“You’ve only kissed one person?” said Roger. “Fuck goes on in Leicester?”

“It’s not Leicester, it’s me,” said John, trying to mask his melancholy with a laugh, with a quickly fading grin.

“It’s not you,” said Roger, his fingertips ghosting against John’s thighs. “It’s definitely not you.”

John looked up at him, he knew his own cheeks were bright red, but he didn’t expect Roger to be just about as pink as him. He’d never even be sure Roger _could_ blush. “What makes you say that?” said John.

“I mean look at you,” said Roger with a shy laugh.

“You think I’m…” John’s voice trailed and his throat tightened.

Roger laughed. “C’mon John.”

“C’mon what?” said John, sitting up a bit, turning more toward him. Roger looked back at him, a dopey smirk on his face and a nervous laugh bubbling up in his chest. And he said nothing. Not a single word. Just sighed, and leant forward, and brushed his thumb across John’s cheek. And John could swear he saw a bit of apprehension, anxiety, fear even, just moment before their lips met. A clumsy and uncoordinated movement that could barely be classified a kiss, something that made Roger laugh against John’s tightly closed lips.

“Softer,” mumbled Roger as he ran his thumb across John’s bottom lip, “softer.”

“Sorry,” said John, his words getting cut off by Roger lurching forward, shutting him up with a kiss. John knew he was thinking too hard about it, about what his lips were doing, what his tongue was doing, what his hands were doing, and he knew Roger could feel that tension in him. But that momentary embarrassment was worth it for the soft sighs Roger hummed against his lips.

Roger’s hand dropped from John’s cheek, to his neck, down his shoulder, across his collarbone, each pad of each finger pressing firm but gentle against his skin. And he moved lower.

“Wait—wait,” John pulled away, leant out of his touch.

“Sorry—the scar I—sorry it slipped my mind,” said Roger. John heard his words but focused a little too hard on Roger’s glistening, swollen lips. Hard enough that Roger wiped his mouth a muttered a quiet, “what is it?”

“Just—just the scar, it’s just—”

“I know, I’m—I didn’t mean to,” said Roger. John nodded some kind of acceptance, still bright red, still a little dumbstruck. “You alright?”

“Just fine.” John’s words were much faster and louder than he’d intended.

“You picked it up quick,” said Roger, nudging his side a bit. “A natural.”

“Thanks,” said John with a breathy laugh, though he knew Roger was lying. The record kept spinning, kept playing some song John had no chance of deciphering in his current state.

“Too weird?” said Roger after a long beat of silence muddled with Beatles.

“What’s too weird?” said John, not catching on.

“Hello, darling!” called Freddie through the flat. John nearly jumped out of his skin as the front door flew open, Roger did just about the same. “Oh—pardon me, hello _darlings_. What brings you by, John?”

“Drove me home,” supplied Roger quickly.

“Yes—and it’s getting late, I ought to head back,” said John, stumbling to his feet. “I’ve got heaps of work.”

“Do you—I didn’t mean to keep you,” said Roger.

“You didn’t,” said John as he tugged his jacket on upside down, not bothering to correct it, not wanting to linger too long.

“Well it was nice to see you again,” said Freddie.

“What happened to your date with Mary,” said Roger with a clenched jaw. “Thought I had the place to myself.”

“She’s coming down with something, I didn’t want to catch it and spread it round the four of us before a show,” said Freddie.

“Of course,” sighed Roger, his eyes flicking up to John quickly and fleetingly.

“Well—I’m off,” said John, “thanks for the er—the tea Rog.”

“Tea?” said Freddie. “What tea did you make?”

John hurried, in his upside down jacket, for the front door and heaved it open just as Freddie screamed Roger’s name followed by ‘that tea’s worth a week of groceries’ in a high, shrill voice. John slammed the door midway through the thought, too shaken up to laugh at the little domestic quibbles he and Freddie had.

He new Brian was right in that Roger was a flirt, didn’t know what he was doing when he did it. But that was hard to misinterpret. At least he thought it was.

He hopped in his car and took a deep breath when his shaking hands missed the ignition twice. With the windows down and the radio up he calmed himself just enough to think. And found he couldn’t, found all his thoughts jumbled up into one and sank in his stomach as he replayed the soft but needy feeling of Roger’s tongue against his. His drive home, no matter how quiet the music or how slow the pace, offered him no clarity.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update was so late !! A lot of things got in the way but it's here now <33 Thanks for all the lovely comments you've all been leaving, they mean so much I'm so glad you're liking it! And please comment if you like this chapter as well <3 !!

“What d’you mean ‘kissed’?” laughed Brian.

“What the fuck do you think I mean?” snapped John, nestled deep in Brian and Tim’s couch. It’d been a few days since he’d last seen Roger. According to his roommates he’d called once but John hadn’t called back. It was a foolproof strategy until he had to play in the fucking band. So he figured spilling his guts to Brian might bring it into perspective, might calm him down. Or it would’ve if Brian didn’t stare at him with a confused smile and a cocked head.

“Roger _Taylor?”_ said Brian.

“Brian— _please,”_ said John, rubbing one temple.

“Sorry, it’s just...not what I thought of him,” said Brian with a shrug. “He seemed very in favour of women.”

“I—I don’t know what’s going on, I don’t know if that’s really the case or if...something else, I don’t know,” said John limply, his arms crossed loose over his chest.

“Why do you look so upset?” Brian laughed. “You were just a few weeks ago talking about how you fancied him. Can’t’ve passed that quick.”

“He doesn’t—this doesn’t mean he fancies me,” said John, “but what does it mean?”

Brian pursed his lips, about to say something but came up short for a few seconds. “Why is that—why wouldn’t that be what it meant?”

“Because he doesn’t,” said John matter-of-factly.

“Well…” Brian looked at him like he was delivering bad new, “I think him snogging you sort of…contradicts that theory.”

“He—He prefaced the whole thing by saying he was curious if he was as good with women as he was with men, it was—it was a—a dare or a challenge,” said John with a shrug, “if you’d’ve driven him home he would’ve snogged you.”

“Is this a willful ignorance,” said Brian with a grin and a crack of his knuckles. “I mean, you can’t be serious.”

“I am serious.” John’s tone was more biting.

“John,” said Brian with intensity but gentleness, “I think he’s being very obvious. Why’s that not what you want?”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means, you’re being handed what you were wishing on not so long ago, but here you are running from it or excusing it?”

“You weren’t there,” said John with a dismissive wave of his hand. “If you heard what he said, how he said it, you’d…it’d all be obvious that it wasn’t a real…” his words trailed off, losing steam.

“Right, that makes sense. I can’t count how many times I’ve snogged my friends on the basis of proving my own skill to myself, happens every weekend practically,” said Brian, entirely monotone. John said nothing, but avoided Brian’s gaze. “I’ve got a feeling you don’t believe that either, got a feeling you wouldn’t avoid him this intently if you really thought it was nothing.”

“You think I’m avoiding what I want?” scoffed John.

“I think you’re avoiding what it takes to get what you want, yes,” said Brian flatly.

“Apparently all it fucking takes is a drive home,” said John.

“You knew you’d have to tell him eventually, why is it the end of the world if this comes out while you’re together?” said Brian.

“You don’t,” John clenched his jaw, caught his own angry words before they started, “you don’t understand it like I do, maybe it feels easy to you but it’s…”

“I didn’t say easy.”

“Well you’re making it sound—”

“John you can’t have a relationship without—”

“Oh fuck off, fuck off,” John stood, “don’t you fucking lecture _me_ about what _I_ need to do and what _I_ need to tell anyone. I’m the only one living like this, I’m the only one that gets to decide all that, _me!”_ John took a breath, watched how wide Brian’s eyes got, watched the way he raised his hands just up to his shoulders in surrender. John turned on his heel and made as much noise as he could storming out, just barely covering the sound of Brian’s timid apology that registered in John only after he’d slammed the door.

He shook with what he liked to believe was anger while he turned the key in his ignition. But he didn’t feel angry really, not deep down. He didn’t like being lectured on the do’s and don’t’s of his existence, on the guidelines written by people who could never dream of his situation. But Brian wasn’t a part of that, not really. Brian was a patient ear and a kind listener, someone always quick to apologise and help. No the shaking wasn’t any rage towards Brian, but anxiety towards Roger.

Towards the idea of him, and the idea of the two of them. What the fuck would that look like. His heart pounded at the very thought of Roger knowing, of Roger hating him for it, or God forbid preferring him for it. Of it being a conversation, a heavy conversation that he had to phrase delicately and plan out and get just right to make sure Roger didn’t run away gagging.

As if it would get to that point.

Brian’d said it himself, Roger’s relationships had the shelf life of a few months. He wouldn’t put up with something so tedious. He wouldn’t put up with John’s body and what he wanted, wouldn’t put up with his apprehension about it, wouldn’t put up with his inexperience. It’d be a tumultuous drag through a forest of uncertainty and painful discover only to be totally abandoned when Roger got bored or spotted someone a bit prettier a bit less maintenance than John.

He parked his car, an old junker that he didn’t mind scraping the sides on, and thumped his way up to his flat. The only place he felt safe hanging around anymore. Everywhere else had the chance of seeing Roger, a risk he wasn’t willing to run, not yet anyway.

“John? ’s that you?” called one of his roommates.

“It’s me,” replied John as he shucked his jacket off.

“He called again.”

“Again?”

“Again,” he repeated. “Said he’ll be working the stall all day tomorrow if you’d like to drop by, something like that.”

“Oh,” John held his breath, “okay.”

“What’s he need from you?” his roommate meandered around the corner from the kitchen, nosy as ever.

“He—he’s looking to get more practice time together, thinks my bass playing’s no good.”

“Ah,” his roommate nodded, “is he right?”

“No he’s not right,” laughed John, playfully shoving his roommate as he passed him, hoping his laugh disguised the tension in his words. He hurried away from any lingering bits of conversation and shut himself in his room. He peeled his top off, unpinned his bandages, and draped a blanket across his shoulders. In the quiet, with just his desk lamp and his work to keep him company, he could forget all the anxiety stitching in each of his muscles, and breathe.

~~~

Class was a brave venture for John. He’d long ago given them all his schedule to make sure no one booked a practice or a trip out to a distant show during some intense lab or lecture that would be borderline life and death to skip. That meant Roger could corner him if he really wanted to. John couldn’t blame him after the added unreturned call from earlier that morning.

He tapped the end of his pencil rhythmically on the open pages of his book and looked out the window in the door, as if Roger would be waiting there for him. And he couldn’t help but want him to be. Want him to chase him down and demand the difficult chat John was avoiding, the one that he, on some level, wanted. He let his daydreaming carry him away, a little further than he wanted to go. To thoughts of the way Roger might wrap around him, might hold him, might declare some kind of deep and long-lasting love for him no matter what may come. Silly, he knew, but a nice comforting thought while he mindlessly scribbled in the incorrect notes he pretended to take in his lecture.

And when the lecture ended, Roger wasn’t waiting for him on some bench in the long hallway. Half disappointment, half relief flooded him at the sight of the unrecognisable faces glancing his way as he hurried by them. He couldn’t quite tell which emotion he wanted to feed.

The air on the street was cold, but the sun was warm and beating down heavy. His walk home wasn’t an inconsiderable distance, normally something far enough that he’d drive into class, but that morning he’d been keen on going without, on not leaving a car parked in the street or in some lot where Roger might somehow stroll by and see, and be able to wait on him. But after coming up empty and alone after his class he wasn’t so concerned with that anymore. In fact, his anxieties went the opposite direction.

Why hadn’t he chased him down to the one place he knew he’d be. Was that a respect for privacy and space or was it a loss of interest, a loss of an interest he likely never even had if John was honest with himself. But to lose the desire to see John so quickly stung no matter how insubstantial or meaningful it’d been that morning when he called to remind John, or his roommate rather, that he’d be at the stall.

The more John pored over those anxieties and swirling thoughts, the wonkier his path home got, until he found himself a block away from the stall. Not thinking, not planning on seeing Roger, not planning on what might happen if he did, just aimlessly drifting that way with a heavy feeling of desperation and shyness in his chest. Turning down their street wasn’t something he pictured himself doing, and the further down it he went the more he wondered, at the back of his mind, why he hadn’t turned around. But he didn’t turn around, just kept on.

“Deaky?” called Freddie, still a ways up the road, his arm waving wildly.

“Fuck,” mutter John to himself. He watched Roger’s dark blonde hair peek out, curious at first, grinning the next second and waving him down. John froze for a moment, wondering if it was too late to turn around and run home without stopping. And it was. Far too late. So he skipped over his untaken step and walked slow on his way to meet the two of them at the stall.

“How’ve you been, John?” said Freddie with a wide, happy grin as John approached their money box they called a register.

“Just fine—busy, terribly, terribly busy,” said John, his gaze pointedly never once drifting from Freddie over to Roger.

“What’s got you so busy?” said Freddie, genuine curiosity on his face. John wasn’t sure why but he’d expected Roger to tell Freddie, to wrangle Freddie into his game of trying to get a word in edgewise with John. And part of him was upset that Freddie seemed totally oblivious. It must not have mattered much to Roger if it wasn’t worth mentioning to Freddie of all people.

“A—group project, horribly tedious,” said John. “I’m the only one doing any real work if I’m honest.”

“As per usual I’m sure,” said Freddie with a wrinkle in his nose. “Care to sample our wares while you’re hanging about?”

“Er,” John looked up, looked at their racks of clothing and the one woman moving the tops back and forth looking for something specific. Then his gaze moved up to Roger, standing at Freddie’s side with an expectant look and grin on his face. “No thanks actually—I’ve really got to go.”

“Go?” scoffed Roger. “You just got here.”

“I know, but—I’ve got somewhere to be,” said John, already turning to take his leave.

“Not even for a minute or two?” Roger took a step in his direction, a step out of the stall.

“No, sorry,” said John as he hurried onto the pavement.

“John—” called Roger. But the sound of his voice drowned out just a bit when John sprinted across the street, narrowly missing a car coming through and skidding to a stop just before he had to brace against the brown brick of the opposite buildings. It felt like a victory when he looked up and saw Roger on the other side of the pavement, staring at him with his hands limp at his sides. And it felt like an intense loss when Roger muttered something silent to himself, waved his hands as if to shoo John off and returned to the stall, shaking his head the whole way and disappearing deep inside the clothing racks and the shade their awning provided.

John didn’t bother trying to get a wave goodbye from Freddie, instead he gripped the bag around his shoulder a little tighter and trudged his way up the street. At least Roger chased him, at least he hadn’t felt John so unworthy of that. Though, after the way John dodged, he wouldn’t be surprised if he felt that way now.

~~~

The dodging came easier over the days between then and their next practice. There was a comfort in knowing Roger wouldn’t chase him anymore. A comfort and a sadness, but a safe sadness that could keep him warmer than Roger could. Probably. He stopped calling, John told his roommates they’d sorted it out though. Easier, smoother that way. By practice they wouldn’t have to say a word about it, wouldn’t have to acknowledge anything that rested between them they could go right back into how they’d been before. Roger, confidently aloof and welcoming, John, withdrawn and silently pining.

“I think you hurt his feelings,” said Brian on their walk up to their practice room. Normally they could book, through John, a slot in the auditorium or practice hall at the college. But with Brian’s work schedule they were sometimes relegated to secondary schools and closed up pubs that wouldn’t mind taking a small sum from them in exchange for their small stages or back rooms.

“What feelings,” said John with a callous scoff.

“Even if he doesn’t fancy you the way you do him, he’s still got feelings,” said Brian with a sigh. “It doesn’t feel nice to have your calls ignored for, what are we, going on five days now.”

“I won’t ignore him tonight,” said John with a shrug. His tone innocent but every nerve in his body stinging from the guilt. He couldn’t stop replaying the image of Roger defeatedly shooing him away before storming into the depths of the stall. Anger and disappointment wasn’t what he’d hoped to evoke. But it was better than betrayal and confusion, cruelty even. All things that, in his experience, tended to accompany the truth he carried.

“Can you at least make up a reason for why you’ve been off the grid?”

“I already told them both I was working on a group project.”

“Wow, how convincing and not at all vague,” said Brian as they turned the corner into the lot of the little county theater they’d been granted access to. Brian’s guitar case smacked against John’s as they went, no effort to apologise or move out of the way was offered.

“Why’re you cross with me now too?” groaned John.

“I’m not cross,” said Brian, clearly cross.

“Sure…” John adjusted his grip on his guitar case, felt his bass shift inside just a bit. “Y’know this is difficult for me too—”

“I won’t say anything past this,” interrupted Brian, “but if you were so terrified to be with him, there were kinder ways than silence to let him know. If it was really so perilous to you to even chat about some stupid kiss, you could’ve just told him flat out not to say a word and forget it.”

“Right,” said John, clenching his jaw as he got a bit more defensive, “right, I’m sorry, I keep forgetting you’re the expert on what I should and shouldn’t do.”

“This isn’t about…about all _that_ ,” said Brian, gesturing vaguely to John. “This was common courtesy.”

“You’re the one who told me how flaky and unreliable he is in relationships, how I’d never pin him down for very long,” said John.

“I didn’t then add ‘if he kisses you you should ignore him for a week’,” said Brian.

“Why’re you suddenly behaving as if I shirked off his marriage proposal? All he wanted to say to me was it didn’t matter, what’s the harm in putting that off?” muttered John with no real bite.

“I don’t believe that you honestly think he wanted to talk to you because it didn’t matter in the slightest,” said Brian.

“Sorry to disappoint then,” said John, more than a little annoyed. He took a step in front of Brian’s path to stop him short and walked a comfortable distance ahead of him into the building.

The confidence that swelled in him, born of righteous indignation towards Brian, kept him civil and slightly personable as he waved his hellos to Freddie and Roger across the way. Confident enough to notice the way Roger’s glances lingered on him from behind his kit, confident enough not to look back at him.

“You two aren’t usually the ones bringing up the rear,” said Freddie, teasingly as Brian let the door to the carpark swing closed.

“Long walk,” said Brian with a shrug.

“You walked?” chuckled Roger, his words directed towards John. “Why not drive? You’ve got a car.”

John looked up at him, catching his eye for just a moment before he looked back down to his feet, tapped them a bit as he spoke. “Thought the walk might be nice, fresh air, no petrol cost.”

Roger laughed a bit under his breath, grinned when John looked back at him. “Alright, John.”

“Alright what?” began John. His words, any response Roger might’ve given, covered quickly by Freddie knocking the mic stand over. Feedback invaded the speakers and caused them all to scream at Freddie for being so careless while their ears rung.

“Can we all calm down, it’s not the end of the fucking world,” said Freddie as he stretched his jaw to pop his ears. Brian’s amp shrieked a bit when he plugged it in. “See! It happens all the time!”

“Oh please, that wasn’t nearly as blaring,” said Brian with a smirk.

“Does it matter if it was loud so long as I’m deaf now,” said Freddie with theatrical hand pressed to his chest.

“If you went deaf we’d have to get a fifth member to sing, maybe one who’ll take some fucking lessons,” said Roger with a snicker.

“I have the power to quit!” said Freddie with fake anger. “You do all know that right!”

“We know,” said Roger and John in comfortable unison. John looked over to him, grinning wide, and found Roger was focused on the quiet tapping of his snare drum to check it’s tuning.

“What’re we starting with?” said Brian, crosslegged on the floor with sheet music by his feet. All hand written, none of them were much for buying sheet music but especially John and Roger who both much preferred to make it up themselves, make it better than before without the audience ever noticing.

“Setlist, I suppose,” said Freddie. “But let’s start with those covers.”

Those covers.

The two, two and a half songs, John and Roger had worked their way through together, alone in that practice room. The two, two and a half, songs that John hadn’t touched in days. Each bar, each run, each little fill, reminded him of how that day ended. How he wished all his days ended like that, wished none of them did either.

And where normally there was camaraderie in the rhythm section, glances and silent exchanges to keep each other on course, to guide eachother through tricky fast bits, to smile at each other through the slow bits. That all left. In it’s place was fake smiling from Roger that faded quickly when he’d look back to his drums and focus in on the way he ghosted his notes. John figured he’d earned that. That sort of disinterest from Roger. It’d been what he was gunning for so hard all week but it didn’t feel as good as he’d hoped.

Felt safer. Felt calmer knowing he wouldn’t have to deny him, or accept him and spill the truth out in a clumsy, desperate way all while begging his opinion of him to stay unchanged. A little pining, a little loss was worth losing the anxiety that came with that unknown factor that Roger held in him.

They played through the planned covers, played through their setlist. Picked up and worked back on the sections they hadn’t bridged together so fluidly and the bits where Freddie felt he ought to practice his ‘backup vocals’ as he called them. The melodies he’d sing if his voice got too tired, or the harmonies he’d layer under Roger’s singing in the same instance. By the end of it they were exhausted. John’s ears rang from his proximity to Roger’s kit. Proximity he kept nice and tight. And his hands were on the dangerous edge of blistering when Freddie, in his hoarse voice, congratulated them all on a stellar practice.

“We’re sounding better and better,” said Freddie as they all packed up.

“I think so too,” said Roger, his voice just as scratchy.

“Who’s in for the pub?” said Freddie, noncommittally. Less of a true invitation, more of a lazy suggestion.

“Not me,” said Brian. “I’ve still got grading to do.”

“Not me,” said John.

“Not me either I’m afraid,” said Roger with big apologetic eyes.

“I’m meant to meet some of my art friends but,” Freddie groaned, “honestly they’re starting to wear me down. I feel like I’m at the fucking circus.”

“That bad?” said Brian with a laugh. He grumbled like an old man when he got to his feet and bent down for his guitar case, all neatly clasped shut.

“You think everyone’s a freak,” said Freddie with a wave of his hand. “No opinions from you.”

“I wasn’t offering one,” said Brian.

“You walking or you need a ride?” said Roger. He’d knelt down by his kit, begun the tedious process of unscrewing his bass pedal. John made the mistake once of transporting that bass drum with the pedal attached. It got caught on the door and left a nasty gash in the wood. Ever since, Roger’d been religious about taking it off.

“I’ll walk, waste some time getting there at least,” said Freddie.

“Is it the pub down by mine?” said Brian.

“Same direction, different place,” said Freddie.

“I’ll walk with you then,” said Brian.

“Suppose I will too,” said John quickly when he saw that glint in Brian’s eye as he hopped off the stage with Freddie.

“You stay and tear down Roger’s kit,” said Freddie with a cheeky laugh. “It’s definitely your turn.”

“But,” began John, his eyes locked on Freddie and Brian’s backs as they left through the dented metal door to the carpark. He held his breath, never felt more trapped than in that moment, his back to Roger, his desire to leave made very clear.

“Wankers,” laughed Roger from the floor, his voice echoed off his bass drum. “You can leave, I don’t mind it.”

“No no,” said John slowly turning his way back around to Roger who was still hidden by his floor toms, “I’ll help, it’s a lot of lifting.”

“You’re sure?” Roger resurfaced, bass pedal in hand, a knowing look on his face.

“I’m sure,” said John, totally unsure.

“Right,” said Roger with a smirk, “well, thank you. As a reward I’ll give you a ride home.”

“Oh that’s alright,” said John, though his feet were rubbed raw in places from the walk over. His boots weren’t necessarily made to traverse hills the way he’d done all night.

Roger stared at him, his lips pressed tightly together, and nodded, “that’s fine too.”

Normally John helped him dismember it all. Brian often reminded them how useless he’d be if he damaged his hands in a freak drum-carrying incident. At least Freddie’s excuse was always more along the lines of ‘I’d rather not’. And for the most part the process, with just the two of them, was fun. But that night it became a depressingly silent affair. Passing each other with different drums and hardware in their arms once or twice before Roger decided to carry the bass drum out on his own and completed their last trip back and forth alone.

John held the back door to Roger’s van open for him, a small show of useless help, and watched Roger slide the drum in with a bit too much force.

“Well,” he panted and rubbed the indents the drum had left on his hand, “guess that’s it.”

“Guess so,” said John, he let the back of the van close.

“Mm,” huffed Roger, his thumb still pressing into the red spot on his opposite palm. “If you don’t want a ride how about a beer?”

“A beer?” said John, his voice just barely squeaking it’s way out.

“We don’t have to stop in a pub, we can just go by some corner shop if you like,” said Roger.

“What for,” said John, knowing exactly what for.

“You don’t have to,” said Roger, his hand reaching in his pocket for his keys.

“I...” John watched him lock the back door to his van, his single word become a low whisper as he went on, “I suppose we could.”

“Oh yeah?” Roger unlocked the back again, swung the door open. “Set your guitar in there and we can go.”

So John did. He slid his guitar in amongst the drums, let Roger lock the door. He said something about a corner shop on the block across from them, said they ought to hurry if they wanted to catch it before closing. With his feet still aching, Roger ended up a few steps ahead the whole walk, and caught the clerk just as he was threatening to close up. They both thanked the tired cashier for allowing them in over and over and over again, and apologised like mad when Roger offered up coins as their payment. But it put a smile on their faces when they stepped out two beers richer.

“Here let me get it,” Roger grabbed John’s can and pricked it with his car keys. He handed it back and did the same to his own, leading the way back to the van.

“Thanks for buying,” said John, staying at pace with Roger now that there was no rush.

“I owed you for the sandwich,” said Roger, nudging him with his elbow. John had nearly forgot that strange kiss had been preceded by a shared poor man’s dinner and forced bites of orange.

“Oh—forgot about that,” said John with an awkward laugh.

“We’re square now,” said Roger turning to him with a grin. Is that all he wanted? To even out his debt for a half sandwich and a coke.

Roger stopped in his tracks, checked down either side of the road, and took John’s sleeve. Tugging him behind as he sprinted across the street, not bothering to head all the way over to the crossing and back down the otherside to the carpark they left Roger’s van in. John hurried behind him with achey feet and uncertain steps, his beer sloshing in the can when they hurried to a stop on the other side of the road.

“C’mon, John, don’t lag behind,” teased Roger as he hurried on ahead. John hurried with him, ignoring the way his boots rubbed his feet wrong, the way his heart still pounded from how abrupt and tight Roger’d taken his arm on their flight across the road. By the time John caught up, Roger was sat in the back of his van, his legs dangling off the side, a spot just big enough for John next to him. Carefully arranged out of the limited space left by the drums.

Roger patted he spot and John sat down, ignored the way some of Roger’s hardware poked him in the sides, ignored the way he felt like the cymbals might come crashing out behind him.

“Might be able to get us another gig at the end of the month,” said Roger, taking a sip of his beer.

“Oh,” said John, unsure what he was meant to say to that nonstarter of a conversation opener. “Where’ll it be?”

“Truro,” said Roger, “that’s how I’ll get it—I’ll be home for the Easter weekend, thought I might try booking something when my mum’s not looking.”

“Tell your mum I say hi,” said John through a smile.

“She’ll be glad to hear it,” said Roger with a grin. “And er—tell your’s I say hi, I suppose.”

“You suppose?” said John.

“Never met them,” Roger shrugged, took another sip to follow John’s. “But, actually, maybe I don’t want to.”

“What’s that mean?” said John.

“I—only—I only meant,” stammered Roger, “that you mentioned you didn’t get on…didn’t mean anything else by it, honest.”

“It’s alright,” said John with a wave of his hand and a big gulp of his drink, he swallowed it with some difficulty and flexed his hand around his can as he did, “I don’t think I’d like to meet your father either so…we’re even.”

“Suppose so,” said Roger, his voice so low John almost didn’t hear it. For a moment no one spoke, the only sound between them was the clicking of Roger’s lighter as he lit a cigarette. He offered one to John with a gesture of his hand, John accepted with a nod, and Roger lit John’s against his own before passing it off and taking a deep drag. “Are we alright?”

“What could be wrong?” said John.

“No use in that,” Roger sucked his teeth, “I know you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset,” said John with a scoff, a little more relaxed with a beer in him.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” said Roger. He pulled in the smoke so forcefully. John found himself mesmerised by the way the ash grew right before him. By the way Roger flicked it off onto the pavement between each deep breath. “You gonna stop dodging me?” When Roger asked his question he spoke it to his shoes, when he waited for the answer, he turned his head to John.

“I was busy,” said John with a shrug, “not avoiding you.”

“Well, then will you stop being so busy?” said Roger, a knowing grin on his face.

“I er…” began John, shaking on a breath in, the nicotine and alcohol mixing perfectly, giving him a mellow kick, “I think so.”

“Good,” said Roger on a deep breath out, like he’d been holding it in waiting on John’s answer, “I was afraid I lost you there.”

“You could never,” said John, wishing that sentiment weren’t so true.

“Just a kiss,” said Roger. “All it has to be anyway.”

“What’d’you mean by that,” John’s words were laced in a tense laughter, something designed to let him back out of this line of questioning if it didn’t go his way.

“C’mon John,” said Roger, grinning wide and looking out onto the dimly lit street, still slightly glittery with rain-water.

“C’mon what?” said John, meek as ever.

“If you don’t want it to be anything, then it’s nothing,” said Roger with a dramatic swoosh of his hands. “Nothing at all, if you don’t want it.”

“If I don’t want it,” repeated John.

“If you don’t want it,” confirmed Roger as he pulled the cigarette from his lips, let it come to rest between his fingers for awhile.

“And if I did want it?” said John, an awkward, out of place laugh chasing his words. One that Roger ignored.

“If you did you wouldn’t’ve raced out of my flat and ignored my calls for days on end,” said Roger with an unhappy laugh.

“That was,” John dropped his cigarette on the concrete, muttered an apology for wasting it that Roger paid no mind to, “you just surprised me.”

“I understand,” said Roger, leaning away from John and into his can, swallowing the last bit of his drink in one sip, tossing the can out into the carpark and watching the way it bounced and dented its way down the slight incline.

The tinny sound of it’s movement interrupting anything John could think of to say. Until he finally added, “so you _do_ want me?”

“Sorry?” said Roger, quickly averting his eyes.

“That wasn’t just a measure of your skill or something, not any kind of pity kiss after I told you all about how I’d…well all about all that?” said John, his heart pounding harder and faster than his voice really let on.

“It’s not an issue,” said Roger, he took the last drag off his cigarette and flicked the butt into the shallow puddle by their feet. The smoke eased it’s way out of Roger’s lungs in spiraling ribbons around his face, lingering between them with no wind to carry it away, moving between their breaths. “We don’t have to make it one. I can be past it before you even realise. We can be laughing about this by tomorrow.”

Words weren’t coming to him, not in that moment. He reached a desperate hand out between them, rested it on Roger’s shirt, clinging to the center, tugging absently at one of the buttons. A lot on his mind, a lot on the tip of his tongue. Confessions and tears, and pleas for understanding and forgiveness and attention. But none came out, just a sputtering noise, a lean forward, that was quickly matched by Roger.

John hadn’t learned all too much since he’d last tried this, so he leant into the feeling of it, let Roger show him what he was missing all those years wasted in secondary school. With his lips soft and gentle against John’s he ran a hand through his hair, scratched at his scalp. John’s grip on his shirt tightened, his desperation to get it open to get underneath the fabric grew stronger with none of the confidence to go through with it.

When Roger reached down, pressed his fingers to John’s hip and moved up, clawing to his buttons the same way John clung to his, John pulled away. Leant out of his touch and panted when he slammed against the far side of the van.

“Sorry, sorry,” said Roger, scooting away just enough to show John he’d gotten the picture, “forgot I can’t touch.”

“I—I just—I—long story, it’s just that—”

“It’s a painful scar,” said Roger with a shrug, “it doesn’t hurt my feelings you won’t let me poke at it,” he added with a grin.

“That’s…thanks,” said John, sitting up a bit with one arm protectively over his chest.

Roger stared at him, his eyes lingering on John’s for a moment, dragging down his body, back up, then back down. “I…I think we ought to do this more,” said Roger, propping one leg up on the van floor with him.

“You do?” said John, a lot of separate but equally intense emotions flooding him, his mind too distracted to focus on any one in particular.

“If it’s not the end of the world,” said Roger with a small grin. “Wouldn’t want to offend your sensibilities.”

“I’m not offended,” said John. He could feel his face heating up, his heart pounding, his breathing coming in shallow. And could think of absolutely nothing. No fears, no possibilities, no worries, no tormented reminders of what could come just desire, and giddiness.

“You aren’t?” Roger’s fingers grazed the edge of John’s thigh.

“Not at all,” said John, watching the way his fingertips pressed lightly into the seam of his trousers.

“So if I phoned you later, would I be talking to your roommate or to you?” said Roger.

“To me,” said John without thinking. Without reminding himself of why he’d avoided Roger, of why he’d done all this painful and stressful work to put a wedge between them, to distance himself from him and get their friendship back to the way it was, the safe haven it used to be.

But that didn’t matter to him, not then, not staring up at Roger’s big blue eyes. Roger muttered something behind a grin and leant in again, soft still, like John might break, and for all John knew he might. Roger’s hand moved more confidently on his thigh, John reached out, hoping to offer up something similar but knew his hand was too clammy to be anything but an inconvenience on Roger’s thigh.

“Shouldn’t do this out here,” said Roger, pulling away with a sharp breath in.

“Why what’s out here?” said John.

Roger laughed. “Other people. I don’t want some stranger shouting horrible things at us.”

“Hadn’t thought of that,” said John. Hadn’t thought of it because the last time he’d been in a spot like this it looked more innocent, and John looked more feminine. God, what was he wading into.

“Y’know I can give you a ride back,” said Roger, his hand still gripping John’s thigh possessively, “Freddie won’t be home for awhile if your roommates aren’t the ‘going out’ type.” His hand squeezed on John’s thigh, and the grin on his face still looked shy, shyer than it ought to look considering the offer.

The offer John wanted to take. Very badly. He glazed over thinking, for just a moment, how incredible it might be to have no secrets or preamble to his own body, to just follow Roger home and get lost in him for a night, even if it was just for a night. To have a body that didn’t require bearing his soul and allowing someone in far deeper than he’d ever done before. To have a body that could have the type of casual fun Roger was interested in.

“I—I can’t,” said John, inching his thigh away from Roger, “I can’t.”

“I figured,” Roger wicked his hand away, “just wanted to toss it out there see if I might get lucky. Literally.”

John laughed, a hollow laugh that sounded as fake as it was. Roger laughed that same laugh with him. And silence fell in again. John wished he could fill it with something light, or even a better excuse for his seeming disinterest in Roger, but all that meant a conversation. Everything about him meant a fucking conversation. Why was he so cursed as to be born the way he was, to feel the way he did about someone who could barely invest time into his normal relationships, a man doomed to misunderstand and lose interest in him from the start.

“Why do you look so upset?” said Roger in a whisper. He pressed his shoulder to John’s, the warmth of his scrawny body radiated through John’s sweater, made him lean into Roger, made him get comfortable on him. Made him forget to respond. “I swear, I didn’t expect you to come home with me. You’ve never gone home with _anyone_.”

“I wish I could,” said John timidly, unwilling and unable to elaborate.

“It’s alright,” said Roger with a laugh he suppressed to avoid jostling John in his movements. “Let me drive you home, I’d feel like a complete tit letting walk while I drive away.”

John’s feet ached at the thought of walking another second, so he took him up on the offer, hopped in the passenger seat and smiled at the way Roger smiled at him. Neither saying much but humming along to the music.

Questions filled and overwhelmed John’s head. About what Roger wanted, what he was asking for, why he wanted it, how long he’d wanted it, why he’d never said anything. But he couldn’t ask him without breaking the spell of the quiet happiness in the van. Happiness unmarred by expectations or reality or John’s unspoken truth. Happiness that existed based on the promise of more. More that could mean different things to each other, definitions that, if Brian was to be believed, would conflict in the near future. But for then, in the drive back to John’s flat, the happiness was intact and amplified when Roger tried desperately to teach John the vocal harmonies on the radio.

“Your flat’s so much nicer than mine,” said Roger as he rolled to a stop outside his building.

“You’ve never been inside,” said John.

“But the building doesn’t look bombed out like mine and Fred’s,” said Roger, shaking his head, his eyes on the brick of John’s building. “Well—anyway, I’ll see you…soon?”

“Soon,” said John with a slight nod, nearly backing out of it.

“Soon,” repeated Roger, half sincere half mocking the way John’s voice went up at the end. He slide across the bench seat, just a bit, and was quick to cup John’s cheek, to blindside him with a searing kiss that melted him into the seats, even with the light and subtle touch Roger used. As fast as he’d taken hold of John, he pulled away. “Night, Deaky.”

“G’night Rog,” squeaked John, his voice cracking left and right. Roger just laughed, let his hand linger against John’s thigh, and scooted back over to his steering wheel. John waved at him when he got out onto the street, then again when he got up to his door, and once it opened and unlocked, he watched Roger’s van drive off down the road.

If his roommates were awake he didn’t notice. He walked straight for his room, locked the door, kicked his blistery boots off, and let his mind wander. Jumping from worst case scenario to worst case scenario. What began to really pack on the anxiety was the realisation, as he unravelled his bandages, that not every worst case scenario was his fault. That there were other factors of danger between them. Other issues, other threats to their friendship afterwards, their band, their careers.

But his fingers hurt from playing, his feet hurt from walking, and his ribs hurt from the tight binding strapped across them all day. So when he crawled into bed, he pushed those worst cases as far away as he could. And focused on the reality at hand, however fleeting it may be, however disastrous it may end. He focused on how Roger looked at him, touched him, kissed him, whispered to him in the dark glow of the carpark.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone expect me to update this fast? Neither did I but here I am haha!! Hope you enjoy it and please comment if you do, and also sorry to disappoint but please don't come to expect uploads this fast <33333

As John promised, the next time Roger called, he picked up, and he dragged the phone to his bedroom and away from his roommates, and he listened to everything Roger said with a bright blush on his cheeks that he admired in the mirror. Some of his words innocent, most of them not, all of them vague.

Unclear about expectations or meaning behind all of the things he wanted to do. And it only got more unclear with the passing weeks. Weeks spent with Roger pinning him against deserted halls before shows, tangling with him in the back of his van on the nights they were both free, getting tipsy at a bar and walking home arm in arm so neither stumbled too far. John didn’t know what that meant.

He hoped it was his own inexperience with relationships in any capacity that left him confused, but an afternoon with Brian whispering over a table at a diner proved Roger wasn’t dropping any more clues that John hadn’t already picked up.

Brian suggested talking to Roger, outright asking what it was he wanted from him. But John wouldn’t. He wanted to, desperately, but he knew, considering Roger’s history and his loose definition of the words relationship and monogamous, asking him what it all meant might break the beautiful spell of those few times they got to be alone together. Even if that alone time was hinged on Roger waiting on something more intense than what John would allow, even if it meant as soon as he got his curiosity satisfied by what he thought John was he’d leave, it was better than before. At least for right then.

“You’ve got no attention span,” said John through a smile, his breath hitching at the way Roger’s lips trailed across his neck, stopping occasionally to suck and bite and leave marks like he always did.

“I do have an attention span,” his whispered against his skin, “we’re just not paying attention to the same thing,” referring to the movie playing on the television. A very old movie that had a recognisable title, something John saw and said was a classic that they ought to watch. So Roger groaned very loudly and overdramatically, turned his music off, put out the joint he’d lit for them and sat by John on the sofa. But thirty minutes seemed to be all he could allow the film.

“Don’t you care what happens to…er,” John’s mind went blank on the character’s name, every thought focused on the way Roger’s tongue felt against his bitten-raw skin.

“Mm, doesn’t sound like you care all that much either,” he teased.

“You shouldn’t do that,” said John.

“Why shouldn’t I?” hummed Roger. He snaked a hand around his waist. His touches anywhere on John’s torso were always loose because of how quickly John would flinch out of them. A few times Roger suggested returning to the doctor if his scar hurt so bad, considering the fake window of healing John had given himself was almost up. But John brushed those off and wouldn’t sit long enough to chat about it.

“Out in the open like this?” said John.

“Doors’re locked, blinds are closed,” said Roger with a laugh, “relax, John.”

“You’re sure they’re locked?” said John, his words clearly ignored by Roger judging by how he rolled his hips against John’s thigh, the way he draped a leg over John’s.

“I’m sure,” breathed Roger in his ear. He leant up, kissed John with all he had and tightened his grip on John’s hip, pressed against John’s thigh a bit firmer. It didn’t take much for Roger to get hard, it wasn’t the impressive feat he thought it’d been the first time he noticed it, but no matter how many times he felt it it still sent shivers up his spine. Just thinking of how it might feel in him, how searingly hot, how big, how satisfying in a way his fingers weren’t.

“God, I should—I should go,” said John against Roger’s lips.

“I’ll stop, I’ll stop,” whispered Roger, slowly taking his leg off John’s lap, kissing him with less and less intensity, weaning himself off the feeling of it.

“I’m sorry,” said John. He always said that. Always ended things with a pathetic little ‘I’m sorry’.

And Roger always responded with, “don’t be.”

“I want to, it’s just that...” John’s voice trailed off.

“I get it,” said Roger, though John knew he didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. He wasn’t quite sure how long either of them could keep this up. It was one thing to carefully sidestep the fragile facade of the person John presented to the world. The tedious nature of making sure Roger didn’t notice the bandages or the strange fullness in his chest the few times his hands had trailed up and down him in the heat of things. It was another to constantly stop and start eachother. To constantly rile each other up and have John cut it off early with apologies and a quick goodbye, always with flimsy explanations that would wear thin sooner or later.

“D’you mind if I er,” Roger shifted uncomfortably in his seat, “mind if I go deal with this?”

“Deal with what?” said John before quickly realising and adding, “oh—no, no of course not—go ahead.”

“I’ll be right back,” said Roger with an awkward laugh. John knew this was probably the only time he’d had to do that. The only time he’d been with someone so impotent and frigid that he’d had to go jerk off in his own bathroom while his date watched some shitty movie. He knew that awkward laugh was covering an insecurity John had begun to breed in him, a sense of insufficiency that came from John’s constant desperation followed by swift denial.

“Wait, wait,” said John, reaching up, grabbing Roger’s sleeve before he got too far, “let me.”

“Let you?” said Roger.

“Sit,” John tugged his sleeve again and Roger did as he was asked, fell back into his seat. And he sat perfectly still when John reached for his belt, when his shaking hand unbuckled the leather.

“You don’t have to,” said Roger, noting the way his hand shook.

“I want to,” said John. “I want you.”

“I won’t say no to that,” laughed Roger. He unbuttoned his trousers when John couldn’t quite get it. Unzipped and guided John’s hand under the waistband of his pants.

It was hot. He knew it would be, but as he wrapped his fingers around the length of Roger, he couldn’t help focus on the heat it radiated in his palm. Roger hummed, rucked his trousers and pants down a bit more, enough for John to free his cock. It felt big in his hand, looked bigger still.

“C’mon, John,” breathed Roger, he rolled his hips, “do it. Just like your own.”

“Just like my own,” repeated John. His own was a far cry from Roger’s. What he used on himself would never work, but he knew the basics of what Roger wanted. Knew to move up and down. But past that, each movement was an act of curiosity. His thumb dragging through the beads of wetness Roger kept pumping out, the way he’d tighten and loosen his grip to hear what Roger might moan in the crook of his neck, his long strokes born solely from the desire to watch the way his skin moved, watch how that made him moan. Little things he’d never thought of, never considered might feel good, made Roger pant and plead in his ear. He could’ve listened to it all night. In all his dreaming and fantasising it’d never been like this. Roger clinging to him like he might drown if he didn’t, his moans low and quick, his legs spread, his hips moving in time with John’s hand. And John totally untouched.

“Faster, a little faster,” croaked Roger. John had only barely sped up when Roger groaned in his ear and came in his hand. In his hand an across his own knee, on the edge of the coffee table in front of them. John kept going, he was never one to come once and feel sated. But Roger shivered and hissed and swatted his hand away from him. “Too sensitive.”

“Sorry—” began John.

“Fuck,” Roger sighed, covering John’s attempted apology, “fuck, that was messy.”

“It was a lot,” said John, eyeing the slowly forming stain on Roger’s trouser leg, eyeing the way the milky white substance beaded up on the coffee table.

“Is that a lot for you?” laughed Roger.

“I don’t know,” said John, too dazed to lie and pretend he knew what ought to be normal.

“I haven’t had to get come out of my clothes since I was fourteen,” said Roger as he sat up and wipe his trouser leg with the heel of his hand. John ignored him, leant forward, and ran a finger through the come on the table. More viscous than he thought it’d be, stickier. And though it didn’t make sense to be surprised, he was surprised when it was warm, hot even. “What’re you doing?”

John shrugged, sat back in the couch, and didn’t hesitate when he licked his fingers clean. Roger watched him intently. His cheeks hot, his eyes barely open, and his jaw slack.

“How’s it taste?”

“Salty,” said John.

“John,” breathed Roger, his chest rising and falling a little faster than before, “can I suck your cock.”

“What?” John’s eyes widened. That need deep inside, deep in the pit of his stomach, that desperate desire to pin Roger and ride him, that dried up and panic replaced it.

“It…” began Roger, noting the way John’s panic seemed to flood him and overtake him entirely, “nevermind,” he said with a grin, “just thought you might like to get off too.”

“Thanks…” said John with his heart in his throat, “but not yet.”

“That’s alright,” he pressed a kiss to John’s lips, searched John’s mouth for any traces of himself, “that’s alright.”

“We missed so much of the movie,” said John.

Roger laughed loud and settled into the couch, pressed tight against John. “I’ll focus now I promise.” John crossed his legs tight, flexed every muscle in his lower half trying to offer himself some relief from the lingering need he still felt and turned his attention away from Roger’s unbuckled trousers and back to the telly. “Thanks for doing that,” Roger’s hand came to rest on John’s knee.

“Thanks for letting me,” said John, pressing his shoulder against Roger’s.

“Anytime you want to, you’ve got full access,” laughed Roger.

The movie kept on, John nearly fell asleep. His own unsatisfied desires weighing on him as well as his wandering thoughts. He paid no attention to the movie anymore, turning over in his head whether or not they could last like this. With John getting him off if he needed it and getting himself off later in the quiet solitude of his flat. Maybe Roger could handle it like that, but John couldn’t. Just sitting there, watching some movie he was beginning to hate, he could feel himself nearly blurt it all out right then and there just so Roger could touch him back.

And maybe he ought to do just that. Blurt it out while their hormones were still doing most of the thinking, let Roger do whatever he wanted and deal with the consequences of it all later. Stumble over his own words with a threadbare explanation of himself and after Roger made him come he’d think about the rest. About if Roger’s view of him changed, if Roger’s interest in him changed. Though that all presumed those things would come after. That Roger wouldn’t start to view him as some alien until after he finished. Unrealistic at best, unsafe at worst. But, God, he just wanted his hands on him, in some unobstructed way.

The lock on the front door unbolted. Roger didn’t move from his spot pressed tight against John, but took his hand off John’s knee and worked quick to buckle his trousers back up.

“Hello, all,” said Freddie as the door swung open.

“How was Mary?” said Roger.

“Lovely as ever,” Freddie hung his coat up. “What’re we watching?”

“We don’t know,” said John with a clenched jaw.

“My favourite,” said Freddie. He hurried to flop on the couch next to Roger and kick his feet up. And thought John wanted to sit with Roger and soak up any of the closeness Roger was willing to give him, he wanted, more than all of that, to go home, get himself off, shower until his skin was raw from the heat, and forget, forget how tense and tight his stomach, forget all the hoops he had to jump through to feel the sort of things Roger could get from strangers at the bar, or from John’s hand.

~~~

Days on and the image, the feeling of Roger’s cock in his hand still invaded the forefront of his mind. Both to fantasise, to imagine how it might feel deep in him, to dream of how Roger might sound like that. But also as a constant reminder of just how different he was in Roger’s mind. In Roger’s mind his body was something so far from his reality. The more John thought of it, the more he was sure he’d never be able to bridge that gap between what Roger was expecting and what he’d get. It tortured him, but still had him begging for more, for the real thing.

“Hey,” Brian snapped in front of his eyes, “you in there?”

John shook the daydream off and flexed his fingers around the neck of his guitar, he hadn’t stopped playing while he drifted off, but he hadn’t played the right song. “Sorry—miles away.”

“That’s what we love to hear from our bassist,” said Freddie, only half teasing, “that he’s not fucking listening.”

“I’m sorry,” repeated John more defensively. “I didn’t get much sleep that’s all.”

“Leave him be,” said Roger behind his kit.

“Well be sure to get sleep before our next show,” chided Freddie. “All over the fucking place.”

“He did technically keep time,” said Brian, “the wrong melody but the right time.”

“Whose side are you on?” said Freddie with narrowed eyes.

“There’re sides now?” laughed Roger.

“There’re always sides,” said Freddie. “Unless I don’t want there to be.”

“Perfect sense,” laughed John. Freddie grinned back at him, and they all four decided they’d run the music through enough to head home for the night.

And though John wasn’t an enormous fan of lugging Roger’s drums out just the two of them, he liked the time with Roger and was sad to see it go when Freddie and Brian pitched in and carried hardware and drums out with them. But Roger still winked when they passed each other in the carpark going back and forth, and still grinned at him like he might take him then and there on the asphalt. And God, John wished he would, wished he could.

“What if we got you tiny drums?” said Freddie. “Those kind that you give to children?”

“They’d sound tiny,” said Roger as he slammed the door to his van shut and fumbled around for his keys.

“They’d be a hell of a lot easier to lug around,” grumbled Freddie. “Tell Brian I said goodnight, it’s cold as shit out here.” He rounded the side of Roger’s van and climbed up in the passenger’s seat.

“What’s taking him so long,” laughed Roger, looking in the general direction of John’s car. John had given Brian the task of loading their guitars in his backseat, a game of tetris he took very seriously.

“They always have to be _just so_ , he doesn’t like them stacked on each other but my car’s not big enough for much else.”

“Does he know that’s what the cases are for?” teased Roger. “Those aren’t just decoration, they’re actually _encasing_ his precious guitar?”

“Oh _he knows_ ,” groaned John. He could practically hear Brian telling him to take the turns slower to avoid the edges of the cases bumping against the doors.

“Hey, er,” Roger took a step towards him, hooked his thumb through John’s belt loop, “After tomorrow’s show, I’ve only got one day before I head back to Truro for Easter, and I thought we could do something.”

“What’d’you have in mind?” said John, trying not to grin too wide.

“I’ll think of something,” said Roger with a laugh. He threaded his other thumb through the belt loop on John’s other hip and pulled him in closer, “something worth your time, something a little different maybe.”

“Different?” said John, focused on how warm Roger’s hands felt on his hips.

“In a good way, I promise.”

“Am I finally getting wined and dined?” said John.

“I don’t have the money to wine or dine you so lower your expectations, but, you’ll be free right?” said Roger.

“I’ll pencil you in,” said John.

“Then I’ll see you the day after tomorrow,” Roger pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth before adding, “and also tomorrow for the concert, but—”

“I knew what you meant,” said John, shutting him up and kissing him back, a little deeper this time. It was easy to get Roger carried away, to get his kisses bruising and his grip on John kneading and tight.

“Okay, okay,” mumbled Roger against his cheek, “save it for later.”

“Okay,” squeaked John.

Roger smirked, smiled and mumbled a goodnight on his way to the driver’s seat. John did the same and stumbled over to his own car.

“Finally!” said Brian when John flopped into the driver’s seat. “Done suckin’ his cock in the fucking carpark?!”

“I was not sucking his—“

“Might _as well have been_ ,” grumbled Brian. John ignored him, turned the engine over and was careful backing out since he hadn’t exactly ‘fit’ in the parking spot he squeezed into. “What took so long, anyway?”

“He was just…inviting me out,” said John as they turned out onto the road.

“Oh…does he normally do that?” said Brian, turning towards John a bit.

“Never had before but, it’s only been a few weeks,” shrugged John.

“Think it means something?” said Brian.

“I hope not,” said John, rubbing his temple tiredly.

“Why?” laughed Brian. “You’re always so upset when good things happen.”

“It’s not a good thing,” sighed John, his voice shaking. “Sooner or later I’ll run out of excuses for why he can’t fuck me no matter what he does.”

“If it’s that big of an issue, tell him it’s off the table,” offered Brian. “Let him know it’ll _never_ happen and he’ll stop trying.”

“I don’t want it to be off the table,” said John under his breath. “I just want it all to be different.”

“I think he’ll understand,” said Brian. “It’s not like what you’ve got’s all too foreign to him. He’s had his share.”

“Fuck’s that mean?” spat John.

“It means he—well as far as I know—mostly sleeps with people who look like you, he’s not adverse to the idea of it,” said Brian. “I don’t think it’ll throw him for the loop you think it will, honestly.”

“I don’t—I don’t want that to be the reason he’s okay with it,” spat John. “I don’t want his experience with women to make sleeping with me easier.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” said Brian.

“That’s what you fucking said—”

“Don’t catch me out,” said Brian with a frustrated shake of his head. “If he’d never gone near a woman, I think he’d still be fine with you.”

“I don’t know,” John rubbed his temple, felt his voice quiver.

“You don’t give him enough credit,” said Brian with a bite. “You fancy him enough to go through all this shit but not enough to trust him to not fucking turn on you the moment you tell him.”

John kept a finger on his aching temple and clenched his jaw, let the low hum of the road fill the silence for a bit until he came to a stop light and eased the brakes on. “I never said…I never said he would ‘turn’ on me. But he probably won’t want me anymore. I just want to drag out the part where he still wants me.”

“How’s that any better,” said Brian.

“I don’t know,” said John, his voice shaking as tears brimmed in his eyes.

“Don’t get upset, it’s alright—” began Brian with a hand on his arm.

“It’s not!” screamed John, his foot firmly on the brake. “So much could go wrong—he could hate me or—or hit me, or _love_ it far too much, and—I’ve got no way to know which—and if any of those things happen I have to start all over with someone else it could happen with—my whole life’s an endless cycle of—of people finding out and waiting for them to fucking kill me for it and I—” the car behind them honked, John hadn’t noticed the light turn green and punched it across the intersection.

“Whoa—whoa,” said Brian with a tense laugh, “John, pull over.”

“I’m fine—”

“Pull over or I’ll roll out,” said Brian.

John thought it over for a moment but eventually slowed and came to a stop against the curb. He put the car in park and went limp against his seat.

“John,” Brian reached a hand out, rested it on John’s arm, “let’s switch.”

“What?”

“I’ll drive us back to Chrissie’s, I’ll make you some real food, we’ve got good tea, Chrissie’s mum makes it from scratch, the bags that is,” said Brian.

“That’s okay—”

“I know it’s okay,” said Brian, “now let’s switch.”

Brian jumped out of the car before John could argue with him. John reached for his door and stretched when he got out, let the cold air hit him as hard as it could, and walked around to the passenger’s side. Brian was a more cautious driver than John, far slower, but it was comforting then where normally it was just irritating.

“Sure Chrissie won’t mind?” said John, still sniffling and biting back tears a few minutes from Brian’s flat.

“She won’t mind,” said Brian, as if it were obvious.

When Brian pulled up it took John an extra few seconds to open his door and hop out. He didn’t want Chrissie seeing the tracks of his tears, though he knew his redrimmed eyes would give him away no matter what. He slammed his door closed and took his guitar by the handle when Brian handed it off to him.

“Don’t look so down,” said Brian with a big hand on the top of John’s head.

“Do I look down?” said John, rubbing away tears and forcing a smile. Brian sucked his teeth, sighed, and rested his guitar against the car, then wrapped his arms around John. He was short enough, or maybe Brian was tall enough to rest his chin on John’s head. Normally, it made John insecure and annoyed with him for doing it, but right then, his tear-stained face buried in the fabric of Brian’s shirt, it just felt safe. “Sorry.”

“Shut up,” laughed Brian, he squeezed him tighter. “Sorry you have this…this stress all the time.”

“I’m used to it,” said John, though the uncontrolled tears raking across his cheeks made it clear that while he was used to it, he wasn’t numb to it. Brian let go, picked his guitar back up, and lead John inside.

Brian unlocked the door, Chrissie popped up from the sofa, stood and greeted him with a kiss. So domestic, so loving the two of them. Something John, for a long while, was sure he’d never be able to find. Something that being so close with Roger had fooled him into thinking was within his reach. Chrissie wasn’t an early riser by any means but she wasn’t about to stay awake and watch Brian and John make meager meals, so once she set Brian on the path of the scarce food they had that he could cook himself, she said goodnight to them both and flicked the stove on for the kettle, knowing they’d want tea. And ten odd minutes later when it finally whistled, Brian whispered a thank you down the hall to her and poured their cups.

“Is it good?” said Brian.

“It’s good,” replied John, his fork mostly moving the food rather than spearing any of it.

“I know it feels like everyone you meet will either have to be kept in the dark until they lose patience, or be cut out of your life after a bad reaction to truth, but that’s not logic talking, that’s fear,” said Brian.

John looked up from his food, looked across the table at him, his eyes still a bit teary here and there. “How do you know?”

“Freddie and I—”

“You two are my friends. I’m sure if, if I told Roger before this and there was no interest in each other it wouldn’t be a problem. It’s a totally different animal like this,” said John.

“Yeah,” said Brian quietly, “it is. But y’know…you’re going to be yourself for your whole life.”

“Unfortunately,” said John with a snort.

“Stop that,” said Brian. “If people don’t want you because of something so—so minor, then fuck ‘em. If Roger doesn’t want you, someone else will, someone better and kinder. And you’ll look back on today and laugh at yourself for worrying.”

“How d’you know that?”

“Because I know you,” scoffed Brian. “You’re worth more than you think.”

“Thanks,” said John, a crack in his voice. “So you think I ought to tell him?”

“I think so,” said Brian. “Roger’s not the most sensitive person, I can’t imagine him giving you any poetic words of assurance, but I know he’d never do anything to make you feel bad.”

“You don’t _know_ that,” said John.

“He’s not an ogre,” said Brian. “He doesn’t have to understand the details to be kind.”

“How do I—how do I even begin to describe—I mean,” John could feel his blood pressure rise, “honestly, how do I—”

“Just let it come up, naturally,” said Brian with a laugh. “Fit it into conversation, mention something about secondary school or something innocuous. Show him your driver’s license.”

“I’ll think of something a little more personal than a photo ID,” laughed John. Brian grinned back.

“As long as you think of something,” he said quietly. Brian sat crosslegged on the couch by John after they finished eating. Nothing of particular interest was on the telly, so Brian turned the radio on, found an old rerun of a show they both listened to as children and let that play. Before it got too late, he unbound his chest. Doing so quickly under his shirt, not bothering to venture to the loo to really inspect his worsening bruises and scrapes. He didn’t mind going without in front of Brian

Freddie was the most motherly of the bunch, always had been. The eldest and the only one with the gentle but firm tone and touch. But Freddie didn’t understand it all the way Brian did. Probably because John was still wary of talking to Freddie too in depth about it. But with Brian there were no secrets. Brian knew him with long braided hair and short skirts hemmed even shorter to compensate for the confusion and secrecy that plagued him for so long. He knew he could cry on his shoulder, or curl up next to him, rest his feet in his lap and listen to the wireless until he fell asleep. And he knew Brian would be careful not to wake him up on his way to bed, would turn out the lights, would leave the radio on a low hum and would tug his shoes off before draping him with a blanket.

~~~

He practiced the speech in his head over and over, taking bits from when he told his sister, from when he told his parents, from when he told his old boyfriend, from when he told a few of his friends. It was a refined, tried-and-true, speech. Getting all his points across in a clear and concise way, letting there be no extra detail but no question left unanswered at least in his own mind. No ambiguity for Roger to fill in for himself. Something so clear and frank it was sickening.

And the more he ran it over in his head while he showered, while he drove, while he puttered through his lecture, even while he played the concert up north Brian booked them, the more the thought about it the easier it was to imagine it going well, to anticipate Roger’s questions or confusions and prepare something for that too. Over and over and over until there was nothing that could go wrong. Probably.

There was always the change that Roger might be brimming with disgust that no explanation would heal, but standing by his kit, plucking out the dark bassline while he battered his drums and grinned at him through his cymbals, it was difficult to imagine him turning tail at the truth. Difficult but not impossible. Definitely not impossible.

After the show, Roger, once again, promised him a fantastic evening the next night, but once again made sure he lowered his expectations considering the fact that currently, with no job but the stall and the band, Roger and Freddie lived primarily off of canned vegetables and rice.

He wasn’t sure how his speech would work into the evening, or if he’d have to give it that night, but he knew if and when the opportunity arose to tell him he could do it. It wouldn’t be a sobbing mess and apology like it’d been with his old boyfriend, it wouldn’t end with dry heaving like it had with his sister, and he hoped beyond hope it wouldn’t end with stark rejection like his friends.

And when the night fell, Roger called and gave him a fifteen minute warning of his impending arrival. John spent those fifteen minutes checking every facet of himself in the mirror. The way his bandages lay, the way the socks stuffed down his pants looked, the way his hair fell around his face, the way his jaw softened in a way he’d never liked, his height, his delicate hands, his cinched in waist. Things he, these days, was usually able to ignore with some degree of success, things other people could ignore, or if not ignore at least not see through him because of them. And he wondered if, after he told Roger, all those little details he hated about himself would stand out that much more to Roger the way they stood out to him. If Roger would start seeing only the panicky young teenager who cut his hair off in the school bathroom and starved himself until the weight around his hips vanished and went silent for days on end just to avoid hearing the high pitched tone of his voice. Coming to London had erased that version of himself, in a sense, had made new people more open to seeing him for who he was not who he used to be. And the thought of opening that door up for Roger had his stomach turning.

But Roger’s van honked outside his flat, not time to second guess, not time to panic. He said quick goodnights to his roommates and hurried down the steps, smiling away his anxiety with each jump.

“Didn’t keep you waiting did I?” said Roger when John hopped up in his passenger seat.

“For hours,” said John, “I almost cancelled.”

“It’ll never happen again,” said Roger through a snicker. John grinned back, felt something in him stress and tighten at the way Roger’s eyes raked over him. “You look good.”

“Oh,” John patted himself down, embarrassed almost to have been looked at so thoroughly. “Er—where’re we going? A new pub or something?”

“A new pub?” Roger scoffed dramatically and pulled off the curb in time with his fake guffaws.

“Well go on then, what’re we doing?” said John, nudging his shoulder.

“Before I tell you, let me give you the thought process,” said Roger with a clearing of his throat, with a preamble like that John’s expectations fell even further through the floor. “What do we normally do, we go to bars and keep a safe distance, we go to each other’s flats, and that’s about it.”

“Yes,” said John, unsure of where that was going.

“Well, I wanted to do something a little more…proper, but seeing as if we did anything proper in public we’d get mauled, I...” Roger laughed, “I er, well, there’s a place a little further out, Brian said it’s near where one of his classes sets up their telescopes, so it’s good star gazing and I—well I did end up buying the food, I figured neither of us would survive me trying to cook something.”

“We’re…going star gazing?”

“With a picnic,” said Roger, quieter, gesturing lazily in to the back of his van. John turned round, saw a brown bag rolled and taped up at the top, a blanket folded up next to it.

“Wow,” said John.

“I know it’s fruity,” said Roger, scratching his head nervously.

“It’s very fruity,” said John through a laugh.

“I know—I know, we can ditch the whole thing, go get pints and smoke or something—”

“No, I want the fruity picnic,” said John.

“You can’t make fun of it then,” said Roger, only half joking.

“I’m not making fun,” said John, “it’s not what I expected it’s—it’s very sweet.”

“Why’s that surprise you?” said Roger.

“I know you’re a big softie in general,” said John matter-of-factly, “I just didn’t think you were soft for me.”

“Hm,” Roger looked at the road ahead curious, “what gave you that idea?”

“Dunno,” said John, and he didn’t. But that was enough answer for Roger.

He moved on, started complimenting the band on the radio, told John all about their stuff ought to sound in comparison. John could only get so impassioned about it with his stomach in such tight knots. Roger did most of the talking on the drive up, though he didn’t seem to notice it. It was by design. John asked him questions about albums, artists, comics, books, that he knew Roger was either incredibly fond of or a mortal enemy of. Things he could drone on about without much input and never notice.

They turned down a dirt road. Across the way was the university’s lab designation. Their green houses, ponds, stretches of various plant life for the sciences, their plot of dirt for the astronomy students, and somewhere in there John was sure there was a football field. But that was across the way. Roger took him on the opposite side. The trees were more frequent and the grass was longer, and the night felt darker. Much darker, much harder to navigate.

Roger stopped the van in a bigger clearing, somewhere where the light of the city still peeked through the trees, but the light of the stars were taking up their attention, were far more visible than John had ever been able to see from his flat.

He laid out the blanket, handed John the food and rummaged around for the two beers he’d brought along with. “Might wait a bit before you crack it open, they’ve been rolling around on the floor like mad,” said Roger before dropping down next to John on the blanket. “Food’s not terribly fancy either.”

“I didn’t come here for the food,” said John with a laugh. Roger laughed with him, looked at him intently, John could feel his eyes still on him when he worked the butchers paper off the sandwich he’d found in the bag.

“Oh—Brian told me a few constellations that’re out,” said Roger.

“You talked to Brian about all this?” said John through a bite of roast beef.

“Don’t worry, I told him I was taking some girl out, he’ll never suspect,” said Roger, John tried very hard not to laugh. They shared bites of the first half of the roast beef sandwich, took sips off their mostly-foam beers, and Roger pointed out constellations he was only half certain about. No whirring from cars, no drunken shouts off the street, no worry that their closeness might be seen unfavourably by some other pub goers. Just the two of them.

John figured, he shouldn’t ruin that with the truth.

“Freddie packed some biscuits,” said Roger.

“Freddie’s in on it too?” said John as he searched through the back for the biscuits at the bottom.

“No, he just made too many.”

“He can make biscuits?” said John with a scoff.

“Well, he and Mary claim they were good, but we’ll be the judge of that.”

John unwrapped them. Found the texture in his hand to be sandy or grainy. “They’re hard as rocks.”

“Break it in half, give me a bite.”

They both laughed at the echoing noise it made when John finally worked it in half. Almost like a bone snapping. Unsurprisingly neither of them could get their teeth through it. Roger gnawed off a chunk but nearly broke a tooth trying to chew it.

“Doubt the animals’ll even take that,” said Roger as he flung one of the biscuits out into the grass.

“Doubt they’ll be able to decompose,” laughed John. Roger huffed through a laugh and shifted down, the blanket, took one last sip of beer and laid down. He poked John’s thigh, urging him to do the same. And he did.

He laid on the blanket, staring straight up at the clear, deep-purple sky, and scooted closer to the warmth Roger radiated. And Roger scooted closer to him. He mumbled something about one of the constellations they both thought they saw, some bit of information Brian had given him about it earlier, something neither of them cared about, but John couldn’t get enough of the sound of his voice, low but animated, right next to him. So warm and husky.

“Hey John,” he whispered, propping himself up on one elbow.

“Hm?” said John looking up at him with a grin.

Roger grinned back, reached a hand out on the opposite side of John for a little stability, and leant into him. John hummed into his mouth, wrapped a hand around his waist, felt the heat of skin sear against his fingertips, and sighed. Sighed and breathed Roger’s name on the exhale. Roger groaned, and moved his hand down John’s side, across his hip, moved two fingers gently across his stomach, then grazed along the outline of the socks in his pants.

“Wait—wait, Rog,” said John, frantically sitting up, getting a head rush doing it.

“What’s wrong,” said Roger, sitting up with him.

“I don’t…” began John, the speech he’d been practicing sitting on the tip of his tongue. But the solitude drowned it out. The lack of an escape route forced the truth back down deep, somewhere he could reach it again when it wasn’t such a risk. “I don’t know.”

“I think I do,” said Roger with a quiet sigh.

“You do?”

“It’s the damn scar,” said Roger with a laugh. John had almost forgot he ever told that lie. “I know it must be mostly healed by now, I know you’re hiding it and you don’t have to. I don’t care, I don’t care one bit, I’m not going to be scared off by some silver skin.”

“You aren’t?” said John, his heart in his throat, and the truth creeping back up.

“Of course not. Whatever you are is exactly what I want. A scar’s just a scar, I’ve got marks all over me from that strange growth spurt I had when I was about twenty,” he laughed. “A little bike scar’s not the end of the world.”

“You mean that? Really?” said John.

“Really, I mean it,” said Roger. John stared at him, holding his breath, wondering if the words he kept forcing away from the forefront of his mind might just spill out. Roger rested a hand on his thigh. “And I know you’ve never been with anyone, but I’ve never been with a bloke, we’re both in unfamiliar territory, you don’t have to worry about it.”

“Really?” said John, just above a whisper.

“Really,” repeated Roger, “it’s all alright.”

“Okay,” he took a sharp breath in, “then I have to tell you something.”

“Oo, sounds serious,” said Roger with a laugh, a laugh that John mimicked out of anxiety.

“It’s…it’s a bit serious,” said John. Roger’s grin faded. “It’s er—well I don’t have a scar on my chest.”

“You don’t?” Roger cocked his head.

“No, I never did, I…I just hide my chest out of habit,” said John. That beautiful, perfectly crafted script started to leave his mind, only bits and pieces of it remaining and most of those bits and pieces too blurry to make out as the panic started to set in how it almost always did when he told this story.

“Why would you do that?”

“Because it’s not flat,” said John, his breathing coming in a little harsher.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” John swallowed, “when I was born, they thought I was a girl. They were wrong, and they’ve always been wrong about that, but I didn’t realise it until I was,” he blanked on the number for a moment, stammered for a moment, “until I was ten or eleven or…something like that.”

“How did…” Roger cracked his knuckles nervously, “what’re you getting at here?”

“I—I look like a girl,” said John. “My body anyway. I—I’m not one, and I never was, but if I don’t flatten my chest, or…or stuff my trousers, or dress the way I do, I’ll look like one. But I’m not one, not now not ever. It’s just…just the way I was born.”

Roger stared for a moment, not really looking at John, just letting it sink it, his confusion, his surprise clear on his face before he mumbled a quiet, “oh.”

“I know I should’ve said earlier but I didn’t know…” ‘how you’d react’ was the end of that thought, but it came to John that he couldn’t actually tell how Roger was reacting so far. If this silence was disgust or repulsion or something equally awful.

“The whole time?” said Roger. One of the only questions John hadn’t really anticipated, one he didn’t think Roger had thought all the way through. So he answered with a nod. “I never noticed.”

“That was the idea,” said John timidly.

“So…you’ve got…it’s not a mix of anything down there, it’s just…” began Roger.

John felt the air leave his lungs, felt tears bubble up behind his eyes, he tried to cough out the sound of the lump in his throat but failed, “er, no it’s not a mix, it’s just…how you’d think.” He kept his words as even as possible and thanked the darkness for hiding the tears escaping down his cheeks.

“I’m—I’m sorry, I—“ began Roger at the sound of his tears.

“It’s okay,” said John, swatting away the hand that reach out to comfort him, he didn’t want it. He brought his knees up to his chest protectively.

“Who else knows?” whispered Roger.

“Er,” John’s hand shook when he wiped his tears, “my roommates, my family, my old classmates, and Freddie and Brian.”

“What the fuck—why did you tell them before you told me, what the fuck’s that?” said Roger.

“Brian went to school with me,” said John with a shrug, “he knew already. And I only told Fred on accident while I was drunk.”

“But in all our—in all this,” he gestured between them, “you never thought I might like to know?”

“I did,” said John, his voice sounding pleading and tired, “but I…well I…fancied you. And I didn’t want you to hate me or think I was disgusting for it, and I didn’t want you to like it too much and think I was just some fucked up woman and…” John’s eyes welled up again, his face tensed trying to keep the tears at bay but ultimately he lost, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Roger smirked but only briefly. “Sorry for what?”

“I don’t know,” said John, shaking his head and wiping his tears a bit too roughly. “For ruining dinner,” he squeaked out.

Roger laughed, quiet and compassionate, and put a hand across his shoulder, pulled him in close and sighed deep before he laid down, gently urging John to come with, to lay by him. And he did, rested on Roger’s bicep like a pillow and stared straight up at the stars holding his breath in time to Roger’s even, steady, deep breaths.

“Is that why you don’t get on with your parents?” said Roger. “I thought it was the whole…gay thing.”

“They’re nicer than they were back then,” said John his tears running straight back into his hair, though he knew they were slowing down overall.

“I’m sorry,” said Roger. “Is your sister okay with it at least?”

“Better now that I’m out of the house. We went to the same school and I…everyone knew she was my sister, it was embarrassing for her apparently,” said John.

“That’s fucked up,” hissed Roger. “This why you’re always so secretive about changing backstage.” John nodded. Roger found a few more of those, a few isolated incidents of weird behaviour that were explained away by his gender. The time he’d nearly hit Roger when he tried to get a glimpse of his school ID card for the ugly photo on it. The time he nearly crushed Roger’s fingers in the door when he walked in on him in the loo, little incidents that stuck out to Roger. And once he’d run out of those, he got quiet, breathed deep and laid there with John for awhile in that silence. John only wished it were comfortable silence. His stomach was in tight knots, his heart was still pounding, waiting for Roger’s thoughts, his final verdict on John’s humanity.

“It’s getting late,” said Roger finally.

John shot up, rubbed his eyes, apologised quietly for laying too long with him, Roger said nothing just muttered something along the lines of ‘don’t worry’, but it wasn’t loud enough for John to hear the words, just the sentiment.

“You alright?” said Roger with a hand on John’s shoulder, friendly, platonic in nature.

“I’m fine,” said John with a tired sigh.

“I should get back, I’ve got to get down early to see mum tomorrow,” said Roger as he stood. He held a hand out for John and hoisted him to his feet. And said nothing else, good or bad. He folded the blanket up, picked up the bits of trash they hadn’t stuffed back into the bag at first and swung John’s door open for him before getting in the driver’s seat and turning the engine over.

“Won’t you say something?” said John once they hit a main road, the silence growing too unbearable. Rejection was better than silent mystery.

“What should I say?” said Roger with a scoff.

“Nothing I guess,” muttered John as he leant against the door, stared deeply out at the dark city through his window. As long as they could be friends, he could live with it. He could accept losing him as anything more than that, but they had to stay friends. And if not friends, bandmates, coworkers. Just enough that he wouldn’t be out of his life entirely. Though maybe that was for the best. Maybe a cleaner break would hurt less than a slow denial.

“Sorry I had to cut it all short,” said Roger as he turned down John’s street, breaking a long silence that neither felt the need to acknowledge outright.

“I still had fun,” said John, and he meant it.

“I did too,” said Roger, just as sincere. “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?” said John.

“Like you’re about to cry.”

“Long night,” said John with a shaking laugh.

“Sure was,” said Roger, laughing with him. “I wish I didn’t have to drive so early tomorrow,” he wrung his hands around his steering wheel, “feel like…I should stay.”

“I’m fine,” said John. “Are you?”

“Sure I am,” said Roger, convincing no one, not even himself from the looks of it. He stopped in front of John’s door, and cleared his throat to cover the silence between them. “Well I’ll…see you later then.”

“Okay,” said John with a tight breath in and a short breath out.

“Okay,” replied Roger. John waited patiently and silently for a more intimate goodnight, for the usual drawn out kiss of desperation and laments that John wasn’t inviting him up. But Roger said nothing, just blinked from John, down to his steering wheel, and back and forth.

“Drive safe tomorrow,” said John limply as he cracked his door open.

“I will,” said Roger, “and,” he reached for John, took his arm and tugged it, reached up for his collar, tugged him closer and scooted over himself to kiss John. His lips tense and awkward against John’s, his hand on his shoulder, unsure of where to go with the looming threat of John’s chest now off limits. He pulled away quick and once he had his eyes were back on the road, happy to never look back when John got out.

He waited to drive off until John unlocked his door, and the moment he had, Roger’s tires were squealing down the street and around the corner.

_So much for that_ , thought John to himself. Bound to happen. Logical, only logical that it might end this way. He showered off, said quick goodnights to his roommates and sat down at his desk, stared at the work he had put off in favour of spending the night out with Roger.

It only made sense. Roger was a womaniser, a promiscuous being with simple needs looking for uncomplicated people to fill them. It was so far out of his range to go for a man, it was even further out to go for whatever he saw John as. It only made sense. And he laughed at himself for thinking it might’ve gone any other way, for fooling himself into imaging a happy ending at the end of his confession. And those laughs were forced and laced with hiccuping sobs that he fought down and pretended not to notice until he finally gave up on doing the work on his desk and climbed into bed, begging, pleading for a dreamless sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost two months later, the next chapter is up haha!! Sorry for the delay! I had some strange circumstances make this fic sort of hard to revisit. But I'm back now <3 hopefully I haven't lost everyone in my absence haha ! Please comment if you enjoy this chapter or any of the previous ones <3333 (also as a side note, I'm a fan of angst but from here on out this fic isn't particularly angsty)

When John phoned his parents’ to let them know he wouldn’t be coming home for Easter, they all feigned disappointment, all did their best to call him the right name, and none offered any consolation prize, any offer to drive to London to see him, to meet in the middle for the day somewhere. Nothing like that. Just apologies that he was too busy to come home from his mother with an implied ‘ditto’ from his father and sister.

Normally he didn’t mind lying about his work to get out of family events, it was usually nice to have the flat to himself for a few days. But not with the loss of Roger. He hadn’t said it outright, but he’d been so strange around John last they spoke, he figured it was only sensible to prepare for bad news. And without Brian to lean on, the silence wasn’t calming it was miserable. And though Freddie didn’t have the quiet tact that Brian had, John was still thanking every divine power he could think of that Freddie also wasn’t headed home for the holiday, and it only took John phoning him and saying hello to get invited over.

“Isn’t this—no you’re counting the points wrong,” said Freddie, snatching the scorecard from John’s hand.

“You’re changing the rules as we go along,” said John with a laugh.

“Am not, you’re just jealous my vocabulary’s so much bigger than yours,” said Freddie, reluctantly handing the scorecard back. His Scrabble tiles rolling around in his hand like dice rather than resting on the holder like John’s. “Brian said he offered to bring you home with him.”

“He did,” said John. Brian rang him up a few hours before he left for home and offered him a spot in his friend’s car on the ride over, said it might be nice to have a fourth person at the dinner table. But John’s mood had been so down and unliftable that he hadn’t wanted to burden the Mays with his presence, not to mention, “his parents don’t know mine but they know _of_ mine. I’d rather not have to explain anything that might come up.”

“Have you met his parents?” laughed Freddie.

“No, why?”

“They’re far too proper to ask anything along those lines,” said Freddie.

“Even so,” said John. He put a few tiles down and tallied up his new score while Freddie swore under his breath.

“Did Roger offer?” said Freddie. “You’ve met his mum, it would’ve been easy.”

“Er…no, don’t think he offered,” said John.

“I’ll be sure to yell at him for that.”

“I’m having fun right where I am,” said John.

“Don’t miss the Easter…breakfast…or luncheon or…whatever it is you people do for Easter?”

John laughed and shook his head. “No I can’t say I miss it. We have to go to church on Easter.”

“Is that such an issue?” The kettle whistled and Freddie jumped up to tend to it.

“It’s not an issue really,” said John speaking up just a bit for Freddie to hear. “But every year my mum’s bought me some new dress she hopes I’ll wear and gets horribly disappointed when I tell her no. Then my father jumps in on it, starts talking about how I need to ‘grow up’, which I always find is an interesting argument.”

“Grow up?” said Freddie, returning with two mugs of tea. Shitty tea he’d mixed with hash for the sake of raising John’s spirits, though John wasn’t sure it’d be strong enough to lift his heavy mood. “What like it’s immature?”

“I guess,” John shrugged. “Everyone in the few blocks around us goes to the same church, it’s probably a huge embarrassment for them to turn up with me every year. I think everyone’s just more relieved if I stay here.”

“I’ve got half a mind to ring them up,” said Freddie through gritted teeth.

“Won’t do anyone any good,” said John. “At least they still speak to me.”

“You deserve more than that,” said Freddie. His gaze lingered on John, full of pity and sadness John didn’t care for, he hadn’t come by to wallow or to ask for sympathy.

“C’mon,” he cleared his throat, “it’s your turn.”

John had never beaten any of them in Scrabble, and he wasn’t going to beat Freddie either. He came up with a few good words, but Freddie had some sort of charm on him that nearly doubled John’s score and where the game was once neck and neck, it became a beating that mercifully ended. Freddie laughed and declared himself the reigning champion, as only Roger had managed to beat him a handful of times. He offered John dinner as a consolation prize, and with the tea coursing through their systems they were both more peckish than their usual nicotine suppressed appetites. He and Roger didn’t have much to offer, but they had cans and cans of various vegetables and sauces that they mixed together to create _something_. Not _something_ good but it was definitely edible.

They put a record on and Freddie offered John Roger’s room for the night. After a lot of promising Roger wouldn’t mind, John accepted the offer.

Last he was in Roger’s room, they were smoking, sitting on Roger’s bed, Roger’s hand on his thigh, lips on his neck, occasionally pulling away to take a long drag off the joint between John’s fingers. John’s chest ached at the memory, wondering if he’d ever make any more like that. He kicked his shoes off, unpinned his bandages, and searched Roger’s drawers for a shirt to sleep in. An action he couldn’t accurately gauge the acceptability of. Borrowing a shirt, sleeping in his bed, all normal if they were friends, but if he returned from break and wanted nothing to do with him then what was he doing? Stealing a shirt off a man who hated him and invading his room. So he gave up on finding a shirt, decided he could sleep in what he was wearing, anything less felt too exposed.

And then he wondered if ought to sleep in the bed. If Roger would let him. He sat in Roger’s desk chair, staring at the rumpled up duvet, wondering if it was crossing a line to get in bed. Wondering if he ought to sleep on the floor, on the couch in the living room, or just go home. He rested an elbow on the desk before lifting it off quick, worried he might disturb whatever Roger had laid out across it.

Mostly it was bills, statements, and a newspaper from a few days ago. But to the side was a sheet of notepaper with words scribbled far too big for the lines printed. It sat on top of a small stack of papers, all torn from notebooks. He reached carefully for the top sheet, and noted the one underneath it had Roger’s regular, unique and orderly handwriting scribbling out words in the shape of verses and choruses. The sheet in his hand however was more cerebral. And at the top in big sloppy writing was the word ‘Liar’.

The sheet didn’t follow the look of Roger’s normal lyrics sheets beneath it, it looked more like a catharsis than a song. Splattered with phrases like ‘everybody deceives me’ ‘why don’t you leave me alone’ ‘everything you do is sin’ ‘they bring you down before you begin’, all with the word Liar added on top, overlapping some lines, punctuating others, scribbled down with intensity, with anger most likely. Written down at the bottom was the phrase ‘Father, I have sinned’, underlined once or twice in a way that made John’s stomach twist up in knots.

He wasn’t welcome in Roger’s room, in his clothes, in his bed, in his flat. He made some excuse to Freddie about fearing he’d left his flat unlocked, fearing his bass might be stolen, and when he got to his car he sat in quiet, still silence. It took the last of his energy to finally reach up and turn his key in the ignition.

~~~

By saturday he found himself longing for the comforts and discomforts of home. Found he might not mind having the same argument with his mum about the suit he wore to church, wouldn’t mind his sister standing several feet away from him to avoid her friends chatting about him later on, wouldn’t mind his father’s oscillation between insisting John grow out of this ‘phase’ or insisting John man up more than he had if he was going to ‘join the club’ as he called it. All of that, and the nights spend holed up in his childhood bedroom trying not to cry, trying not to give them all the satisfaction, it all might be worth it for a few good meals and some company.

When his phone rang, despite himself, he hoped it was his mother, calling to beg him to come home for church the next morning. He sprung up and nearly ripped the phone off the wall when he tore it off the hook.

“Hello?”

“Hey Deaky,” said Brian.

“Oh, hi,” said John, trying hard not to sound too disappointed.

“This is exactly why I called,” said Brian with a quiet laugh, “you sound miserable—why don’t you come up for tomorrow. We’re having a real proper Easter dinner, all you can eat, it’s got to be better than your plans.”

“Oh—no no, it’s alright,” said John, though part of him wanted to just bite the bullet and go.

“You won’t have to talk about it,” said Brian, “the degrees of separation between our parents is immense, my mum couldn’t give less of a shit what gender the Deacon kids were.”

“Maybe,” said John, not at all convinced that he wouldn’t stick out to Brian’s mum, “but I’d just bring you all down, don’t worry about it.”

“Bring us down?” he scoffed. “Why’s that?”

John sighed. “Nothing really I…well…alright—before he left, I told Roger. And he didn’t take it very well I don’t think so I’m, sort of, detoxing over here I guess you could say.”

“What?” said Brian, sounding like a concerned parent. “What happened—what did he say?”

John traced his thumb over the scrape in the linoleum of the kitchen counter. “He didn’t say much, asked me about some little things, and just…just seemed really uncomfortable until he dropped me off and left for home.”

“Well, that could mean anything,” said Brian.

“I don’t know,” said John. He wanted to cite the half formed lyrics on Roger’s desk, calling John a liar, asking God for forgiveness for what little they’d done together. But he knew Brian would get upset. And even in his depression and anxiety, his fear of Roger’s feelings, he didn’t want Brian to turn on him, didn’t want to make any unnecessary waves. “I don’t know.”

“Roger’s…he’s used to things being easy,” said Brian. “He’s been pretty his whole life, he’s been lucky with his music, lucky with his friends, women flock to him, friends come quick. He’s not a natural with complexity like this.”

“You think I’m complex?” said John, leaning against his countertop.

“To him,” said Brian. “I think it’s just starting to hit him that he—he’s in it, he’s one of you.”

“One of who?”

“One of those ‘other people’,” said Brian. “You, Freddie I’m sure, and him too. You’re all in that slightly… _unique_ world. And he’s been part of that simple world of chasing girls and getting them and that being the end of the discussion. Now he likes a friend, a man, and a specific kind of man that I doubt he’s ever heard of. I don’t think he’s used to these things having more than one layer the way they do for people like you and him. I’m sure he just needs time to, to decompress and let it all sink in.”

“I don’t know,” said John, that lyrics sheet popping back into his head.

“It’s Roger. He’s not the most worldly person, but it’s not like he’d ever—ever try and upset you or hurt you. If he can’t deal with it, he can be your friend still, it’s not a total loss,” said Brian.

“You did warn me he’s not good with anything very…serious,” said John.

“You’re putting the cart before the horse,” said Brian. “Call him. I’ve got his mum’s number, if you want. Call him and find out for yourself.”

“Thanks but, I think I’d rather let him think it all the way through,” said John. “Don’t want to push it.”

“Well how’s about while you’re waiting on him, you come up and have dinner with us all? I can even skimp out on the church service to come fetch you, we’ll find something to entertain us, yeah?” said Brian.

“Thank you, really, thank you but,” began John.

“I understand,” said Brian, “but the offer’s open for as long as you like.”

Brian began his goodbyes with a quick speech about how no matter what came to pass, he had a spot in the band, a spot in Brian’s life if not everyone else’s, and unlimited access to sleeping on Brian’s couch if need be. And though John had heard this speech before when his own limitations overwhelmed him, it never hurt to hear it again.

And it did calm him, allowed him to play his bass along to his records without his worried thoughts getting the better of him, without his mind wandering off and focusing on Roger. If he didn’t have Roger, he still had Brian, if Roger saw him after the break and pretended they’d never met, at very least Brian was there to pick up the pieces and tape him back together. And as much as he wished Roger was that person for him, that steady constant of conditionless love, the way Chrissie was for Brian, he began to let it sink in that Roger just wasn’t capable of that. Not in a romantic capacity, not for him.

~~~

His mother never called, not his sister or his father or his mother bothered to ring him up once to wish him a happy Easter. Brian had, earlier in the day and offered again to have him for dinner. It’d been a good start, made him hopeful his mum might phone before the end of the night, but when half passed eight hit he knew no one would be bothering him with any pleasantries or stories from their little holiday.

But sometimes his sister had the power to surprised him. Sometimes she’d call and chat like nothing was wrong. There was a non-zero chance that she was just waiting for their parents to go to sleep, waiting to have the phone to herself to call him up. When the phone rang he wondered if maybe she’d sensed that she ought to call, maybe that twin-like connection they shared as children had kicked back in and she’d reached for the phone.

“Hello—” began John.

“Can’t talk very long,” said Roger on the other end, his words coming out almost too fast to register, “I’m at a phone box about twenty minutes away from my flat, nearly home, can you meet me there?”

“Meet—meet—hello, Rog?”

“Hurry Deaky, hurry, I don’t have much money left for the call,” laughed Roger.

“Oh—yes—yes I’ll meet you—”

“Twenty minutes, I’m getting petrol and I’ll be back, I brought left over roast from my mum’s.”

“I thought—Weren’t you coming back tomorrow?” said John.

“I’ve got work early tomorrow, I don’t have the luxury of being a student like you,” said Roger.

“Right,” said John with a fake laugh, his hand sweating around the receiver.

“If you beat me home, just wait by the door, I’ll be speeding so I won’t be long,” said Roger.

“Freddie can let me in,” said John.

“No he can’t, I used my other coins to tell him I was having someone over and to clear out to Mary’s,” said Roger. “Whole place to ourselves.”

“Okay,” John grinned and cocked his head, “so are you—what’s—what’s going on here?”

But all he heard on the other end was the dial tone once Roger’s change had run out. John was slow to hang up the phone, as if Roger’s voice might peep back through over the dial tone to explain everything. Why had he been so cheery, so aloof as if their last night together hadn’t even happened. Was that good? Was it awful? Did it mean Roger was happy to stay friends but nothing more, or happy to pretend John never said anything, pretend they’d never felt anything, pretend the problem didn’t exist. He couldn’t know, not without talking to him. So he pulled his jacket on double checked his door was locked before driving over to meet Roger.

~~~

In the end, Roger beat John by a minute or two. John spotted him unlocking his door and letting himself in while John parked out in one of the few open spots. And he contemplated leaving. As he got out of his car and crossed the street to Roger’s flatblock, he imagined getting right back in and driving home, locking his bedroom door, and sleeping as soundly as he could. He imagined that right up until he knocked on Roger’s door.

“Who is it?” called Roger.

“It’s me,” squeaked John, “John.”

“Come in, it’s unlocked,” said Roger.

John locked it behind him and waved a quick hello to Roger who was through in the kitchen, holding something about the size of a baseball, wrapped tightly in tinfoil.

“Do you know how to heat up meat?” said Roger. “Oven or pan?”

“Er,” John watched Roger unfold the tin foil to reveal the bit of the roast he’d stolen, “oven I think.”

Roger turned on his heel and flicked the oven on to medium. Roger and Freddie’s oven didn’t have exact temperatures seeing as it was older than the both of them. Roger once said it forced them to really innovate in the kitchen, which John had later come to find out meant eating every meal out of a can.

With the oven on, Roger threw the tinfoil in and slammed it shut, looking at the oven with a misplaced sense of accomplishment before turning to John, striding over confidently and wrapping his arms around him. Like nothing happened. Like days before, dropping John off, he hadn’t been afraid to touch him, to look at him. Like that scribbled up lyrics sheet wasn’t on his desk as proof that something had happened.

“I hope you’re hungry, my mum’s roast is always incredible, she makes it with this marinade or…brine or…something very high end,” said Roger. He turned back towards the kitchen and added, “I don’t know if we have anything to go with the _meat_ , but honestly it speaks for itself,” he said while rummaging through the cans of food and sacks of flour in their cabinets. “Put a record on would you?”

“A record?” said John.

“Those circular things in the sleeves,” teased Roger. “Whichever you like.”

Without another word, John floated to his and Freddie’s vinyls and picked something out. A blind choice that he hadn’t cared to consider before he set it on the turntable and flicked the needle down. Roger made small, inconsequential chit chat while he made tea. John only contributed to the fringes of it, laughing when he needed to at the stories from Roger’s weekend at home, and feeling very relieved to have an excuse not to speak once the meat was ready, once he could eat slow and respond only through grunts while they sat on the couch by the record player.

“Good right?” said Roger after John’s first bite.

“Actually it is,” said John. “Must not’ve got your cooking skill from her.”

“You never know,” said Roger, “maybe one day I’ll have a few Michelin stars or something like that.”

“I can see that,” said John with a low effort laugh that felt as fake as it was and left a bit of silence between them that was only filled by the record in the back. And though he could feel Roger looking at him, he never looked back, kept his eyes on his food and became very intently focused on it.

“Alright, enough with all that,” said Roger, laughing under his breath as he set his plate down, and took John’s to do the same, sliding them both onto the coffee table.

“I’m not done,” said John.

“Finish later.” Roger grinned, hooked a hand around John’s hip and leant over him, kissed him like they’d been apart for weeks not days, kissed him like that time away meant something to him, like he’d missed him. The hand through John’s hair scratched at his scalp so lovingly and soft, the hand on his hip was a gentle but firm grip, his fingertips held him tight and his thumb grazed over the soft exposed skin there. Like nothing happened, like nothing _changed_ , like he forgot everything John told him.

“Rog, wait,” he breathed, pressing a hand against Roger’s chest and pushing gently.

“What’s wrong?” said Roger, easing back enough to look at John with a face full of concern.

“I—I’m—just confused,” said John, sitting up just a bit. “You want me here?”

“What?” Roger laughed. “Course I want you here, I called you over.”

“Yes but this isn’t…this isn’t the last time I’ll see you like this or anything?” said John. Roger cocked his head, shook it, and looked at John like these questions were coming out of the blue. “When we were together before Easter, you were avoiding me like I was diseased and wouldn’t look me in the eye. I think it’s fair that—that I don’t know what you want from me anymore.”

Roger exhaled sharply and eased off. “I guess I owe you an explanation. I was _hoping_ this explained it enough but…”

“But it doesn’t,” said John, finishing the thought for him, demanding he continue.

“Right,” Roger adjusted in his seat, turned more toward John. “I know I didn’t act very...I wasn’t as kind as I should’ve been.”

“No you weren’t,” said John.

“And I’m sorry,” said Roger quickly. “I’d never—met or—I’ve never heard of this before you. I didn’t…it was just odd to think about for awhile, for a few days actually, but—but it’s sunk in. My head’s wrapped around the idea.”

“What does that mean,” said John as Roger leaned into him. He found he wasn’t pushing him away.

“It means you’re who I want, and if you…if you’re a…whatever you call a bloke like you, if you’re one of those then, so be it, that’s what I want.” Roger’s hand moved back to John’s hip. He rubbed gentle circles there, and stared at John expectantly, waiting for something, something like permission from John. Something John wasn’t sure he wanted him to have.

The way Roger couldn’t look at him when he told him, those scribbles of painful lyrics, the way he’d cowered away from touching John that night, as if it was contagious. He wanted to focus on that, to throw it back in Roger’s face as proof he wasn’t sincere. But even when Roger couldn’t look at him, he’d laid down with him, talked to him about it. Even when he was scared to touch John, he’d kissed him goodnight before driving off like a madman. And even if he’d written down some hurtful phrases in anger, he hadn’t shared them, hadn’t doubled down and asserted them as the truth.

“You’re who I want too,” said John, sincere and quiet. Roger grinned wide and lurched forward, capturing John in a kiss and holding him closer, tighter.

There was a freedom in the way he didn’t have to preface himself, to lie frantically when Roger’s hand slid under the fabric of his shirt, moved up John’s back just a bit and tugged him in closer, his fingertips pressing against his bandages. He could’ve cried thinking about it. Thinking about how close Roger was, how incredible his tongue felt, his lips felt, his hands felt, how fervent all of his movements and moans were, and how aware he was of John. How none of his attention faltered or wavered when his hand came to rest on John’s bandages, when his thigh came to rest between John’s. No hiding and none of the apprehension or fear he’d always assumed would be the best case scenario.

“John, we’ve got the place to ourselves,” said Roger in his ear. “D’you want to make the most of it?”

John couldn’t imagine he looked very composed, staring at the record player, watching the needle drag across the dead wax with wide eyes and a dark blush as Roger nipped at his neck, left marks just below his ear.

“How do you mean?” said John, knowing exactly how Roger meant.

“You know what I mean,” he hummed. His hand moved from John’s back, to his hip, and up across his chest, his bandages. Roger pawed at him how he remembered his old boyfriend trying back in secondary school, though Roger had considerably less success considering how flat the bandages made John. Roger sighed against his neck, and John faked a similar sound, focused too intently on the way Roger touched him. He wanted to be touched, wanted Roger to do it, and didn’t want there to be any fear behind it. But something about the _way_ he did it…

“Don’t, don’t,” said John, reaching up his shirt to guide Roger’s hand out of it.

“Was I not supposed to?” said Roger.

“Don’t worry about it,” said John, unsure if he meant that, unsure if he wanted Roger to think about things a little harder than that, unsure if that would make things too tedious, too careful.

“We can go to my room,” offered Roger, his lips ghosting across John’s jaw. John mumbled some sort of agreement, and when Roger stood he heaved John up with him, held two of his fingers for a few steps before hurrying in front of John and skidding into his bedroom. He made some apologies for the mess, and when John joined him he was shoving the bag he’d taken home with him under the bed and caught in his own shirt while trying to tug it off. “Just a second,” he grumbled from inside his shirt, tugging aimlessly at the tight fabric. John wished he weren’t too nervous to wallow in how endearing Roger’s excitement was.

John stood awkwardly watching Roger try very hard to peel his shirt off and wondered if he should be doing the same, or if that would be strange to just strip down wordlessly. Or if it would be strange not to. Or if he’d misinterpreted the situation entirely and sex was the furthest thing from Roger’s mind. To compromise both ends of his panic, he took his jacket off and draped it over Roger’s chair, just in time for him to pop out of his shirt and heave it across the room with his hair newly mussed.

“Don’t look so worried,” said Roger with a laugh. He hurried to John’s side, kissed him hard as he worked open the buttons on his shirt, and guided it off his shoulders. “How’s this work?” Roger mumbled with his fingertips slipping under the overlapping segments of his bandages.

“Er,” said John, reaching for Roger’s hand and easing it away from his chest, “later, do that—not right now.”

Roger pulled his hand away quick but wasn’t shy about touching him still. “Don’t look so guilty,” he laughed.

“Do I look guilty?” Guilt wasn’t exactly what John was feeling but he couldn’t blame Roger for not being able to decipher it off an expression.

“Maybe,” Roger said, a bit slower, “you look off...Is everything—did I fuck it up?”

“No, no,” John laughed quick and shook his head, “no of course not, I’m just, new.” It was a good excuse but John didn’t know if it was the truth. He hoped it was.

“Okay,” Roger relaxed a bit, rubbed his thumb in circled against John’s hip. “Okay,” he repeated a little quieter.

Roger kissed him again, more intensity behind it now, more desperate grabs for John, more sighs, more moans and mindless rolls of his hips. He lead him to his bed. John fell into the mattress and Roger jumped on him in an instant. Kissing wherever he could, touching wherever he could. Not worried about what he’d find, or how he was doing it. Not worried over how his hands lingered over John’s chest, how they kept gripping John’s slender waist and stroking the soft skin there. So confident and familiar with a body he’d never seen. It made John wonder if Roger would touch a different man the same way, or if this was a show all his own.

Roger ripped John’s belt out of it’s loops and was quick to unzip and unbutton his trousers. Quick to tug them down John’s thighs, over his knees and off, chucking them across the room. He unbuttoned his own trousers, rucked them down just a bit before excitedly falling on John again, nestling his hips between John’s legs and his lips on John’s neck.

And his hand on his waist, right where it cinched in how John hated. His other hand aimlessly pawing over the bandages. There had always been a fear in John’s mind of the only people willing to touch him being overly fascinated, overly interested in their differences, and far far too eager to explore them. He knew that wasn’t Roger, knew Roger saw him as a man, he’d said so himself, knew the differences were inconsequential. But he touched him like he was thinking about it too much.

But, John figured, as Roger’s hand moved down his stomach, as his lips moved across John’s cheek until their tongues met in a sloppy hurry, maybe neither of them knew better. Maybe Roger didn’t know what to do with a man, and John didn’t know what to expect from anyone. He sighed when Roger pressed his fingers against him through the thin fabric of his pants, and tried, very hard, not to think about what Roger might be thinking about.

“Really nothing there,” said Roger in a low voice.

“What?” said John, a little too high-pitched.

“Nothing,” Roger laughed at himself, “there’s just nothing here,” he moved his fingers with heavier motions. John looked up at him with a mostly blank but clearly upset expression. He couldn’t figure out why but that offhand comment hurt, it made his stomach turn in a way he didn’t like, in a way he wasn’t familiar with. Roger seemed to read that off him and mumbled a quiet, “sorry, it’s all new.”

“It’s okay,” mumbled John, though it wasn’t.Roger rucked his pants down, just enough. Just enough to get a hand on John’s bare skin, to make him breathe in sharp and fight the urge to cover up and run. He smiled against John’s lips, laughed into his mouth whenever he heard John whimper or whine at his gentle ministrations. Roger made some noise, possibly a word, whispered it in John’s ear before he pressed two fingers into him, slow and shallow at first. “How’s that?”

“Ah,” sighed John, eyes locked on the ceiling while Roger sucked a dark mark into his neck. Roger hooked his fingers and rocked his hand into him. John reached out for him, for his hip, for his arm and held on tight while his hand moved slow and steady. “Fuck.”

Roger huffed out a laugh and pressed a kiss to the corner of John’s mouth. “Didn’t expect you to be whiny.”

John’s breath hitched in a laugh that quickly gave way to a moan. Roger grinned down at him, his eyes shining and his cheeks flushed. His eyes flicked down, between them, a quick glance to watch his fingers plunging into John.

“Hey!” John snapped, loud enough to make Roger stop and stare at him like a schoolboy being caught by the headmaster. “Sorry I didn’t mean to—just—just don’t look.”

“Don’t look?” said Roger, a sigh of relief prefacing his words. He spread his fingers deep in John, and curled them again just to watch John whimper. “It’s not gonna surprise me,” he said, eyeing John carefully. “In fact, you’re in luck. I really know my way around pussy.”

“Oh…kay,” said John, his words catching in his throat as his stomach turned over itself. Forget why he didn’t want Roger to look, he could sort that out himself later. But why was Roger’s response to remind him he’d been with women, and was good at it. Why would he use that awful word John so patently avoided, why wouldn’t he know John avoided it. Why was he thinking, pulling from his experience with women to navigate John.

John might’ve stopped it there, to ask him all those questions, to double check everything was right, that Roger was thinking about it in the right light. But all his motivation to do so got lost. Maybe it was the humiliation of stopping the whole night to ask Roger if he was still a man in his eyes or if he’d joined the ranks of the women he’d bedded over the years. That was something he just couldn’t face, a layer to this already massively layered experience he wanted to avoid. Maybe that was the reason. Or maybe it was, for all his lack of tact, Roger was right. He was good. Each movement of his fingers was better than the last and had John on the edge of coherency, wondering, with no real reference point, how much better his cock would feel.

“Roger,” he breathed.

Roger kissed his jaw, smiled against his skin. “Nearly there?”

John nodded as best he could and bucked up into Roger’s hand as it slowly left him. “Why’re you—why’re you stopping?”

“You said you were a virgin right?” Roger licked his fingers clean. “It goes in easier when you’re dying for it.”

“Oh,” said John. He wasn’t sure if his cheeks could get much redder but it certainly felt like they were.

“Don’t worry most of the other girls I’ve had like this say it doesn’t hurt a bit,” said Roger. His hips rolled up to meet John’s but John found himself totally unfazed and unresponsive to the way Roger’s clothed cock ground against him, the way his lips tried to force some life out of John’s. His blood had run cold and each muscle felt simultaneously tense and entirely out of his control.

“Other girls,” repeated John.

“Other girls what?” said Roger, too lost in the feeling to think.

“You,” John wedged an arm between them, shoved Roger’s chest and forced him to get his weight off him, “you said ‘other girls’. ‘Other girls say it doesn’t hurt’.”

“Did…” Roger stared back at him, mostly blank, a little wide-eyed, “did I—I didn’t—John I swear—I didn’t mean it—”

John didn’t let him finish the sentence. He shoved Roger up some more, hiked his knee up into his chest and pushed as hard as he could until Roger fell off him. Luckily his pants hadn’t ever come all the way off and he could cover up quick while he searched for his shirt, his trousers, his shoes.

“John—wait,” Roger leaped to his feet, tugged John’s trousers out of his grip. Holding them hostage. He looked pleased with himself for a split second before he read the look of pure shock, maybe disgust on John’s face and handed them right back. “Please, John, I didn’t mean it—”

“Of course you did!” spat John. “You’ve been treating me like a girl all night—I don’t know why I’m surprised!” He didn’t bother with his belt and moved straight on to trying to button his shirt up enough to keep his chest covered on his short journey to the car.

“I—No I haven’t,” said Roger, a little too much bite in his voice.

“Fuck off, you just called me one!” spat John. “You haven’t stop bothering with my bandages and fucking groping whatever you can feel underneath them—you—you,” he bit his tongue, not worth the fight. If he left now he could save his friendship, maybe forget it ever happened, or at least stop Roger from spreading the news around town. “It doesn’t matter anymore, I’m leaving—”

“Wait, wait,” Roger rushed for the door but John got to it first. Roger followed him into the hall. “John—please, please, it’s late!”

“So?!” said John, searching for his housekeys.

“So you shouldn’t drive home this late,” said Roger. A flimsy excuse that made him sound like a mother. “Stay.”

“Stay and what? Fuck you?” said John.

“No—no, of course not—I’ll take the couch, you can have my room to yourself, but—please don’t go,” said Roger. “It’s late—it’s dark out, it’s—”

“So what?” spat John. “Sorry—I forgot I’m such a dainty _girl_ that I can’t possibly make it my flat without getting taken advantage of.”

“Stop putting words in my mouth!” he screamed.

“I’m going home!” John shouted in response. He picked his keys out of the bowl by Roger and Freddie’s door and clutched them tight enough to bruise his palm.

Roger called after him a few more times, followed him pointlessly down the stairwell until neighbours started looking out and suddenly he wasn’t so keen to walk into the road in just his pants. He shouted, asked John to call when he made it home, John ignored him and slammed his car door more for Roger’s sake than his own before peeling off the curb.

It wasn’t worth it, he knew it wasn’t worth it. Freddie and Brian had picked it up in an instant, and Brian had known him from before and still not falter in his perception. They never needed spoonfeeding and guidance from John to see him in the light he showed himself in, they’d never, even by mistake called him a girl, and John knew it was because they never once had it cross their minds. But it was crossing Roger’s. In all of John’s experience, with friends, with his old secondary school boyfriend, once someone stopped looking at him like the man he was and started pulling at the threads of what made him different, there was no way to stop it. No way for their curiosity to be satisfied, no way for them to accept him as he was without an asterisk, a caveat, an exception.

It was common, more common than acceptance if his own history told him anything, but he hadn’t expected it from Roger.

Now more than ever, he was grateful to have the flat empty when he made it back. He locked the front door, then his bedroom door, then slowly stripped himself of his hastily buttoned and zipped clothes, trying not to glimpse himself in the mirror. And when he finally fell into bed, got wrapped up in the safety of his sheets, he let his hand wander between his legs. Felt the wetness there, felt the ghost of Roger’s fingers, much bigger, longer than his own. Hw wondered if that would be the closest anyone would get to him, to his body. Wonder if getting fingered by Roger and called a girl would be the best he could hope from anyone accepting him and taking him as he was. The optimist in him wanted to think that of course not, of course this wasn’t his peak and of course he’d stumble along someone who wasn’t so off-put and perturbed by his very nature that they failed to know him. But the pessimist reminded him over and over again, a week ago he was certain Roger was that person.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here's another 7k! nearly to the end of this one now but I'm glad whoever is reading is enjoying it <33 please comment if you like this chapter !!

The phone rang, yet again. John grit his teeth and hopped out of his seat in his and his roommates’ cramped living room to go do what he’d been doing for days on end, picking up the phone and slamming it back down. It was Roger, it was always fucking Roger and John was in no mood to speak with him. No mood to speak with anyone really.

“I’ll get it,” said John’s roommate, hurrying up to stop him.

“It’s him again—” began John.

“Might not be,” said his roommate. “Might be one of our mums,” he added with a laugh.

It’d been a little over a week, John hoped each morning that Roger might give it a rest. But he hadn’t relented so far. John wasn’t sure yet which would effect him most, the annoyance and frustration of Roger’s constant calling or the deafening silence of when it finally stopped.

The morning after he’d stormed his way out of Roger’s flat, Brian came back into town and John trudged his way over to meet him for lunch, spilled his guts out then. All about how harsh and insensitive Roger had been, all about how he’d said what he’d said and made John’s skin crawl. Brian didn’t say much in his defense, he offered that it might’ve been a slip of the tongue but didn’t seem to think it all that likely. When John mentioned the horrible, hateful lyrics John had found at the beginning of the weekend, Brian started apologising for him having to endure all that and offered more and more food. It was tempting to overstay his welcome then, but eventually he went home to wallow a bit. No use in avoiding the wallowing, he figured he ought to just get it over with.

His roommates didn’t quite understand. He’d told them there’d been a row. Hadn’t told them what about, hadn’t told them the nature of their relationship. The only information they needed was Roger had done something John considered unforgivable and they were all going to have to suffer a few days worth of Roger’s attempts at explaining why it was actually _fine_ that he’d said what he said.

“Hallo,” said his roommate into the receiver. “Oh—yes he is here, er—I suppose he can talk—John—”

“Hang up!” said John quickly.

“No, no,” his roommate replied, “it’s the other one.”

“Other one?”

“No Brian but er—Frank?”

“Oh, Freddie,” said John, hurrying up out of his chair. His roommate handed off the phone to him and John twirled the cord around his finger. “Fred?”

“John!” screamed Freddie. “I call _seven_ times in a row and each time the line cuts off before I’ve hit the third ring—what the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“I—I didn’t know it was you—” he began.

“Who the fuck could’ve incurred this rage?!” spat Freddie.

“It—it’s nothing,” said John.

“Fuck’s sake!” Freddie huffed. “Anyway I was calling to tell you we’re all meeting tonight, it’s not an official rehearsal we’re just going over the new songs and that sort but may as well bring the bass. Roger’s not bringing drums but Brian’s bringing his guitar, that sort.”

“Roger’s coming?” said John.

“Are you high?” said Freddie. “Are you in your flat high? Is that what this is? You’re hanging up ringing phones, asking if our fucking drummer is coming to band practice? Did you take some sort of elephant tranquiliser—”

“I didn’t take an elephant tranquiliser—“

“Good!” spat Freddie. “Another hour and we’re at a spare practice room Brian rented us out, same music hall. Or in your stupor have you forgot where all that is?”

“I know where it is,” said John through clenched teeth. “Thing is I’m not feeling too well and—”  
“I have performed with strep throat,” said Freddie, “you will come to practice with a sniffle.”

“Whoa, what’s the attitude for?” John made a face at the phone like Freddie might see it.

“How’s this, how’s about you call me with something urgent and I’ll hang up on you seven times in a row? Why don’t we do that and see how your mood is!”

Before John had time to add anything the line went dead. John figured that was probably fair. He wouldn’t have much patience or care for someone that spent the better half of an hour hanging up on him. Though, Freddie ringing all afternoon meant it hadn’t been Roger. John cleared his throat, tried to clear his chest of the weight that realisation set on him.

All for the best, of course. It’d sting to go back to being just friends but Roger couldn’t handle anything more. Not without trampling over John’s boundaries, discomforts, and feelings. If he wanted Roger in his life he’d have to deal with the sharp knife’s twist of letting go of any hope he might’ve been happy with him, and forcing Roger to do the same. Of course that was much easier to do from his flat. Much harder, he imagined, to do while in practice together.

Freddie sounded deadly enough to fire him on a whim over the phone, John didn’t want to push it by just not showing. He thought he might send Brian with a note, or might call Freddie back and give him the full truth but, even as cross as he was, he knew that wasn’t really for him to tell Freddie. But, maybe, if Roger had genuinely given up calling, he might also be civil in person, might also avoid a fight or any odd bickering that might draw attention to them. Roger was a few years older after all, he was a git but not totally devoid of sense. Maybe.

~~~

John could practically hear his blood pulsing in his ears, could feel it thumping as he rounded the corner towards their practice room. He was about five minutes early, hoping to catch Brian before the rest showed up, hoping to slink into the background by the time Roger got there. He swung the door open and stopped short when Brian’s curls weren’t anywhere in the room but Freddie’s were.

“Finally!” said Freddie. “A second person—God, it gets so dull in here alone. They took the piano out just to spite me I think. Jealous of my ability.” He nudged a chair at his side with his foot, inviting John to come and sit.

“Why’re you here so early?” said John. He set his bass down and meandered to the chair Freddie patted.

“Brian called and said he rescheduled the room for an hour earlier,” said Freddie with a wide grin. “Obviously doesn’t trust me with the time.”

John couldn’t help but laugh. “How long have you been here?”

“Oh,” Freddie checked his watch, “ten minutes maybe.”

“Practice starts in five,” said John. “You were going to show up to practice forty-five minutes late?”

“Well I didn’t say he had no right not to trust me to show up on time did I?” said Freddie with a giggle.

John settled into his chair, the squeaks from the metallic joints echoed through the room. “So where’s Roger?”

“How should I know?” He shrugged.

“You’re his roommate,” said John with a cocked head.

“Doesn’t mean were glued at the hip, we can arrive places separately,” said Freddie, adding under his breath, “although it doesn’t happen much.” He crossed his legs and flopped his feet into a chair a bit away from him, he sank down in his seat to get more comfortable with his feet up. “I told him he had to leave the house for awhile, he was getting so stale.”

“Stale? Like bread?”

“Stale, like air,” said Freddie with a grumble. “Sitting by the phone, dialing over and over, gumming up our lines and getting fat.”

“He’s fat?” John had only seen him eight or nine days ago. “How fat?”

“Well,” Freddie shrugged, “not fat at all but emotionally he’s enormous. He’s been eating all our winter’s stock.”

“Winter’s stock? You sound like serfs.”

“That’s how we live, darling,” said Freddie with a flourish of his wrist. “But I told him to go outside for no less than five hours or I’d flog him. Dunno where he got to after that.”

“Ah…” said John. “What’s he sitting by the phone for?”

Freddie looked lazily in his direction, peering over invisible glasses at John. “I’m sorry am I still supposed to pretend I don’t know you two are fucking?”

“Ah—” John’s words caught in his throat.

Freddie sat up. “I can keep on but I figured, y’know, may as well…”

“I—I didn’t know he’d told you,” said John. “But…what other excuse would he have for ringing me so… _nonstop_.”

“Yeah...” said Freddie cocking his head. “But he told me awhile ago.”

John couldn’t help thinking of the times they’d been almost caught by Freddie at his flat, the times Roger promised Freddie didn’t have a clue, the times he promised there was nothing to worry about. Not that John would’ve been particularly worried considering how good Freddie’d been at keeping his other secret, but still. “How long ago?”

“Oh,” Freddie exhaled, trying to concentrate, “well he told me we had to fire you about—”

“Fire me?!” said John. “He’s trying to fire me?!”

“Calm down,” Freddie rolled his eyes. “A month or so after you first joined he wanted you gone and after five or six pints he said it was because, I think the phrase he used was you were ‘growing on him’. Like pulling teeth to figure that out with him but,” Freddie shrugged, “he broke it off with Jo, I don’t know how well you remember her but I still have a folder of wedding ideas for them.” John didn’t remember Jo very well. He met her twice and heard the news that he’d never meet her again before he ever really got his bearings playing in the band. He’d always assumed she was another of Roger’s passings fancies. “Then he and I moved in together and he said he’d sort it out, since, well at the time I thought you weren’t going that way.”

“You really didn’t know?” said John.

“I don’t know, I thought maybe because of your other business,” he said with a wave of his hand in John’s general direction, “I thought you wouldn’t want someone with all the opposite equipment. Might turn you off or something.”

“Interesting thought,” said John, wondering what mental aerobics Freddie’d used to come up with that one.

“Well—three odd months ago he comes to me, _convinced_ you’re up for it and I’m, y’know, warning him he’s losing his mind and he’s gonna make you quit. But things worked themselves out.” Freddie sighed.

“Did you not…not warn him about…” John rolled his wrist, hoping that would fill in the blank.

“I thought it’d be best coming from you.”

“I thought so too,” said John. “But—I’m sure he didn’t tell you _this_ , but I told him right before Easter, he looked at me like I was diseased, and didn’t ring once over break. Not once. After I’d told him this—this—”

“He did tell me,” said Freddie calmly. “He told me about your fight as well.”

“God,” John shook his head and felt his jaw tighten up. “I’m sure he really did try to get sympathy for that didn’t he?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Freddie.

“I mean—he, he treats me like a stray after I tell him, no phone call, no—no reassurance, then rings me in the middle of the night, and,” he shivered, “touches me all wrong, calls me a fucking girl and has the nerve to call on a loop like I might answer—that—fucking—”

“That’s not how he tells it,” said Freddie.

“I’ll bet it’s not,” said John. “The truth doesn’t work out well for him.” Freddie stared at him for a moment, John quieted his panting and asked finally, “how does he tell it?”

“It’s similar,” Freddie offered, “very similar. He said you told him, and he didn’t know what to say, didn’t want it to be wrong. Spent the whole weekend trying to wrap his head around it, came back to you, said everything was going fine, said you were _really_ enjoying yourself until he messed up on his words—”

“ _messed up_ —” John tried to interrupt.

“—and wouldn’t stay the night, wouldn’t talk to him,” said Freddie.

“Messed up on his fucking words—he called me—”

“I know what he said,” said Freddie.

“So how can you be on his side?!” screamed John. He knew he’d screamed too loud with the way it reverberated off the wall.

“I’m not on anyone’s side,” said Freddie, much calmer and more collected than John. “But do you really think there was no chance that that was a slip of the tongue, totally unintentional?”

“That’s the thing, Fred, it wasn’t intentional. It came out because that’s how he thinks of me, totally unfiltered, that’s how he thinks of me.” John’s shoulders drooped, already exhausted. “I could tell by how he touched me and talked and—the whole thing was off.”

“What do you mean touched you wrong?” said Freddie. “How can you touch someone wrong?”

“You wouldn’t understand—” began John.

“Why’d he tell me you were having a good time?” said Freddie.

“Well, it, it felt good, I was just ignoring all the—all the shit he…I mean I know it was clear on my face how…wrong it all…” John sighed and didn’t bother finishing the thought.

“Clear on your face?” Freddie leant over to him. “He’s meant to interpret facial expressions as complete thoughts while you’re writhing?”

“I wasn’t writhing,” said John uselessly. “It—It just doesn’t take a genius to figure these things out—you— _you wouldn’t understand!”_ He ended his words a little louder than he’d started them and kept his eyes fixated on the floor in front of him. Breathing a bit too hard and clenching his jaw tighter, wondering why Freddie was badgering him like he was in the wrong.

“I wouldn’t understand, you’re right.” Freddie’s voice was quiet. “Neither would Roger, not without telling him.”

“He—he called me—” began John.

“Look, I wasn’t there, I don’t know if he really slipped up or—or whatever else you think happened. But don’t make it out like he’s some brute with no sensitivity, we both know that’s not the case.” He scooted his chair closer to John’s, John fought the urge to scoot away. “I’m not saying you ought to forgive him, I really don’t know how it all…I’m not in your shoes, but I think one conversation might do you both some good.” He said nothing more but nudged John’s shoulder with his own, let silence settle in for a moment before clapping his hands. “Right! How’s about you run through my lyrics, see if anything strikes you?”

“Sure,” said John, considerably more subdued.

“That’s the way!” said Freddie, bending over to rummage through his bag. He fished out two or three sheets. Said they were the best from what he’d been writing. John scanned through them, reading over the fantastical lyrics and wondering blindly about the meaning behind them. Until he saw familiar phrases, scribbles, angry hashes of the word ‘liar’.

“Oh, Roger’s new song?” said John, his stomach twisting up at the familiar sight of the lyrics.

“Roger?” Freddie scoffed. “Did he try and take credit for my fucking lyrics?”

“No,” John held up the sheet, “this is Roger’s.”

“No it’s not,” said Freddie flatly.

“Yes it is,” John said with a tense laugh. “I saw this on his desk last weekend.”

“I put it there,” said Freddie. “How do you think I trim down the enormous stack of lyrics I find? Roger sorts the, what’s the phrase? The wheat from the chaff?”

John eyed him, eyed the lyrics again. “You’re serious?”

“Of course—darling, read those words, do those sound like Taylor lyrics?” said Freddie with a laugh. “There’s no reference to drinking or cars or shagging or yelling at an MP anywhere in there.”

“Suppose there isn’t,” said John, his grip on the paper getting lighter and lighter as he reread the lyrics through a new lens. “Well—then what’s this about?”

Freddie shrugged. “A liar? Lying? What’s it matter?”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore but,” he sighed, “I thought Roger wrote this about me.”

“Christ,” said Freddie, “you really think he’d write that?”

“I found it on his desk the night after I told him. What was I meant to think?” John rubbed his temple thinking of all that unnecessary hurt he felt with every touch Roger laid on him, ever sweet word he whispered. It’d all be undercut by the memory of this angry set of lyrics that weren’t even about him, weren’t even written by Roger. “Oh well.”

“Oh well what?’

“Oh well,” shrugged John. “I guess—I guess I can’t be angry about him for this but that’s…y’know, doesn’t erase everything else.”

“Does it soften it?” said Freddie, eyeing him carefully. “Even a bit?”

Before John could answer, could even consider replying, the door swung open. Brian stepped in first, with Roger trailing behind.

“I thought we were ‘changing the reservation time!” screamed Freddie the instant he saw Brian. “You absolute tit!”

“Don’t act like you were here on time,” said Brian through a grin.

“Is it any of your business if I’m here on time?” said Freddie tiredly.

“It is when we’re practicing,” said Brian.

“It’s not a real practice,” said Roger. “Cut him some slack.” It was almost jarring to hear the familiar rasp of Roger’s voice after so long, after nearly a week of forced silence. John brought a hand up, instinctually waving at him, cloying for his attention despite the indignation he kept trying to feed. Luckily Roger hadn’t seen his little wave as he said hello to Freddie.

He sat on the opposite end of the room, found bongos from the cabinet and only spoke when he had something to add to Freddie or Brian’s lyrics and their little demo versions of their songs, Freddie sang his, Brian hummed his while he strummed his guitar. He never once looked in John’s direction, and John knew because his eyes never left Roger unless he was looking down to adjust his hands on his bass.

In the moment, he wasn’t sure what he wanted. The whole thing to be different maybe. Under it all, he still wanted Roger, his feelings hadn’t disappeared. But Roger was different now, or at least John saw him as different. As someone who didn’t see him for what he was, as someone who looked too closely at their differences and couldn’t move past it. So while he wished he had Roger right next to him again, he knew it was a version of Roger that never existed. And maybe the silent practice, the averted eyes, was all for the best, would help this slip under the rug quick and get them back on track with their music, with their lives.

John focused more on backing the bass behind the two of Brian’s songs they’d begun to focus on. Freddie considered his work unfit for debut until they booked somewhere with a piano or else came ‘round to his parents’ to listen to him demonstrate. John kept his eyes down, staring uselessly at his fingers like he was a beginner, and listened to the faint beat Roger put out on the bongos. They were still easily in sync, easily playing in the same tempo and guiding each other around it as they always did. It made John ache in a way he couldn’t describe.

And when it was over, when everyone started packing everything up, he wished that bit of Roger that called him endlessly for days would turn back up. He wanted him to want him. Wanted him to be so desperate to just talk to him he’d do something ridiculous like linger by the phone for hours, days at a time.

“Who’s for the pub?” said Freddie, stretching up tall when he stood.

“Sure, why not,” said Brian.

Roger shot John a glance, the first of the night. Then quickly flashed back to Freddie. “I’ll go if…no one objects to that.”

“Who would object,” said Freddie, as if he didn’t know.

“Let’s all go,” said John, his eyes on Freddie but his intention toward Roger.

“Good,” said Freddie flatly. “Well let’s crack on then, I’m thirsty and most importantly _bored_ after I was sent here early under false pretenses.”

“I hope you’re not expecting a free pint out of it,” said Brian.

“Of course I am, you foul man,” said Freddie.

Roger hurried out in front with Freddie, John and Brian trailed behind with their guitar cases and caught up to the two of them just before they made it outside. Freddie muttered something about which pub they ought to try, he was always looking for the next most exclusive club, as if they’d find some miraculous musical connection in one of them and get signed to some great fat record company and be millionaires next they woke up. But John wasn’t listening, his eyes were locked on the side of Roger’s face, watching and wondering what he was thinking. Was he giving up? Just like that? Though maybe John hadn’t given him much of a choice. This could’ve been his effort to salvage what was left of their friendship. John couldn’t quite figure out why that wasn’t what he wanted. He had more anger left in him, more he wanted to yell in Roger’s direction. But more he wanted explained. More he wanted Roger to promise was all a mistake. But he was just leaving it, letting it lie. Hardly seemed like him.

“Watch your step,” said Brian.

“Huh?” John turned to him, still half lost in thought, waiting for an explanation. Before he got one, the ground slipped out from under him. He tumbled down the four or five steps that led up to the building. Hadn’t seen the first step and buckled under the others. His bass flew out from under him while simultaneously making sure he rolled his ankle before he landed with a thud on the pavement. “Fuck,” he coughed.

“Hold on, hold on,” mumbled Brian somewhere above him. John watched his skyscraper legs step over him and hurry out to the gutter for his guitar. Never had John been more grateful to have sprung for a hard case.

“Maybe if you weren’t in poofter boots,” sneered someone passing by.

“Oi, fuck off!” called Roger after him.

“You alright dear?” said Freddie, knelt down in front of him, his hand on John’s forehead as if checking for a fever.

“I think,” said John. There was always stiffness around his ribs from his bandages, but now there was the added bonus of bruises forming where his back had hit the edges of the stairs. Only bruises though. What really ached was his ankle. Twisted under the small heel of his boot and the way he’d rolled over his guitar. “Might skip the pub,” he said with a forced laugh as he tried to shift his ankle around.

“Rog, you’re a biologist,” said Freddie, reaching up to tug his sleeve.

“Not a doctor,” said Roger.

“Feel his ankle!” demanded Freddie.

“I won’t know if it’s broken,” said Roger, though he did kneel by John’s foot, and did unzip John’s boot, and did press his thumbs with some air of confidence into the bones and muscles there. Until John flinched away. “Hurt?”

“Yes,” John hissed, trying not to let on just _how_ much it hurt, and how much he’d rather be crying about it than biting his lip.

“Don’t think it’s broken though. You’d be crying,” said Roger.

“What if he’s being brave?” said Freddie.

“No one’s that brave, a broken bone hurts,” said Roger. “C’mon, let’s get him up.”

John held out his sore arm and let Roger hoist him to his feet. To his foot really. He couldn’t put any weight on his left side. When he stood and stumbled, Freddie caught him and pulled John’s arm across his shoulders to steady him. “Rog, did you drive?”

“Oh—I can walk home,” said John.

“You can’t even stand,” said Roger, the first sentence he’d uttered to John while looking in his eyes. First sentence he’d spoken directly at him in a week and a half. It felt oddly personal, intimate even. Enough to quiet John for a moment or two.

“Let’s get him to the van,” said Freddie.

“I’ll drive up, no sense trying to walk him that far,” said Roger. He was starting down the road before anyone could object.

“Doesn’t look hurt,” said Brian, peering inside John’s guitar case.

“That makes one of us,” laughed John. Though the pain of resting so heavily on Freddie and the pain of his entire left leg throbbing made the laugh more pained than he hoped.

“We’ve got a show next week—” began Freddie.

“I’ll be fine by then,” said John quickly, “or at least able to stand on my own.”

“If not we can always put a chair out for you, that might look mysterious,” offered Brian.

“Y’know, you might be on to something with that,” said Freddie thoughtfully.

It wasn’t much longer before Roger pulled up with his van and parked on the wrong side of the road in a strict no-parking zone. He hopped out, opened the back door for John’s bass while Freddie loaded him into the passenger’s seat.

“It’s really not that bad,” said John once more as Freddie and Brian practically lifted him up off his feet and into his seat. His air of nonchalance broke a bit when he winced at the way his boot heel caught on the edge of the doorframe.

“Sure it’s not,” said Brian. Freddie shut the door and John felt a pang of anxiety go through him as he slowly realised Brian and Freddie weren’t hopping in the back to join him. To help him get home. Another wave hit when Roger hopped in the driver’s seat and slammed the door closed.

Roger leaned forward, looked past John to Freddie and Brian, “you two not coming?”

“Need us to?” said Freddie.

“Suppose not,” said Roger with a shrug.

“We can if you like,” said Brian.

“Might be helpful,” said John, looking between Brian and Freddie with what he hoped was a clear expression of desperation. “The steps up to my flat aren’t easy.”

“You think?” said Freddie, looking between the two of them, back and forth, over and over.

“I think we’ll manage,” said Roger behind him. “I wasn’t really in the mood for a pint anyway. Go have one for us.”

“Only if you’re sure,” said Freddie, already stepping back from the van.

Roger laughed, a hoarse and high laugh that John felt like he hadn’t heard in ages. “Right—see you at home then, Fred.”

“See you,” Freddie called.

“Be sure to ice it,” said Brian, hurrying to catch up with Freddie.

John watched them walk up the street, felt Roger shift the van into first gar and wondered, as they drove past, if maybe there was still a chance of them both jumping in the back and breaking up the intense silence John knew he was in for. Once they rounded the corner, once Freddie and Brian were fully gone from view, John kept his focus straight ahead.

“You sure we can get up to my flat just us two?” said John. “Can still go back and get one of them.”

“We’ll be fine,” said Roger quietly, his eyes focused on the road, more so than usual if John was honest. Most of the time Roger drove he was staring at John, grinning, fiddling with the radio, or otherwise distracted. He’d never seen him so focused. “Could be fractured.”

“How’s that?” said John, he hadn’t expected him to speak.

“It could be fractured,” he repeated. “Not broken how you’d think but fractured. Might still get it checked.”

“You think that’s it?’ said John.

“Not a doctor,” said Roger, his words quiet enough that they slurred together. John didn’t bother trying to make conversation the rest of the way home.

~~~

Roger ran his bass up first. It’d be no use trying to take both John and his bass up together. And one was much easier to move than the other. John wondered if his roommates were home, if they noticed Roger’s strange appearance, if they asked him about it on his way in. John certainly wouldn’t open the floor up for conversation by asking Roger if he’d seen them. Judging by how quickly he’d come bounding back down the steps up to John’s flat, he figured there wasn’t any awkward conversation on his way in.

Roger eyed the people walking across the street, the cars passing by, anything at all to avoid John’s gaze staring back at him through the passenger door. John didn’t really blame him for that.

“Alright,” said Roger as he heaved the door open. “Don’t try to put weight on it, you’ll just make it worse.”

“How’ll I get up each stair?” he said with an awkward laugh, hoping he might crack a smile on Roger’s face. It honestly didn’t feel fair that John should be the one to feel awkward and have such an urge to smooth out the tension between them when it was Roger’s fault.

“Suppose you’ll have to hop,” said Roger.

“Suppose I will,” sighed John. Even that amount of stale, surface level conversation was too much for either of them to choke down, no sense in trying for more. He slid out of his seat and fell against Roger, his left ankle throbbing at the very slight contact between it and the pavement. Roger draped John’s arm across his shoulders and held on to his wrist, his other hand coming to wrap tightly around John’s waist.

“Might hurt,” said Roger.

“S’all right,” said John. He wasn’t proud of himself for it, but he did like the touch, the feeling of Roger holding him. Even though his hands were gripping bruised skin and holding on for utility rather than desire, he missed that feeling. And feeling Roger around him, feeling him so close, close enough to smell his cologne and the cheap hair products he used, it almost made John willing to hear him out, to hear whatever speech Roger had been composing the last days spent ringing John on an endless loop. Almost made him willing, but not quite.

Getting to the stairs was an ordeal in and of itself. Hopping up them was hell. But Roger carried most of his weight with what little muscle he had and after an arduous journey they made it to the top, suddenly both quite grateful for the flat path they had to follow through the flat and through to John’s room. Still difficult, but a welcome decline in effort compared to the stairs.

“It’s just through here,” said John in a strangely formal tone.

“I know where it is,” snapped Roger. John let him have that one. Roger had climbed up the pipes into his bedroom window enough to know how to get there.

He kicked John’s door open and hobbled with him the last few steps to his bed. John practically fell back onto the mattress but Roger kept a grip on his arm, not letting him fall too fast.

“Thanks,” he mumbled as he reached down for his boot.

“Let me,” said Roger, kneeling and unzipping John’s boot in one motion. John might’ve fought him on it but knew there was no real way for him to get his foot free without it hurting. Roger gripped his heel and toe and eased his boot off, watching John’s face the entire time, checking over and over to see if anything hurt. It was a relief to them both when he finally got it off without more than a wince from John. “You got ice?”

“I’ll be fine from here,” said John.

“Do you have ice?” said Roger with more force.

“Rog—I don’t need your help, you can go,” said John, gritting his teeth.

“I’m not going so do you have ice or should I use frozen peas?”

“You _are_ going,” spat John.

“What’ll you do about it?” said Roger, flippant as he strode out of John’s room, knowing full well John couldn’t follow.

“I could call the cops!” screamed John from his room when he heard Roger in the kitchen cracking their ice trays.

“So call ‘em!” replied Roger. Even if John could reach a phone they both knew that was a bluff.

“I didn’t pick up the phone for a reason—you don’t get to force a conversation just because I can’t throw you out!” said John, the end of his sentence came to quiet close when Roger reappeared in the doorway, a tea towel full of ice in one hand.

“If this is the only way to get you to speak to me then so be it,” said Roger. “Put your foot up.”

“Fuck off,” spat John.

“God—is it so fucking much to ask that you talk to me?! Is that so much?!” said Roger just below a shout.

“Yes!” shouted John. His eyes locked on Roger’s, hoping to convey how deadly serious he was.

“How’s that fair?!” Roger slammed the ice down on John’s desk and kicked the door closed. “I made one mistake and now you won’t fucking speak to me?”

“Does it matter that it was just once?” John scoffed. “You called me a girl—”

“I was about to fuck you,” said Roger, “I wasn’t thinking about how I was wording everything—it was a fucking accident!”

“Accidents like that don’t happen, Rog!” John wished he could stand, even just to pace, to get out the angry energy building in him. Energy that he thought was nearly spent but of course Roger could rile him back up in an instant.

“Of course they do!” said Roger. “I can prove it—It happened to me!”

“You said that because somewhere deep you do think of me like that,” said John, his words slowing and his volume dropping.

“Are you joking?” said Roger. “You really think that I—”

“You’re the one that said it, Rog,” said John, rubbing his temple. “If any part of you feels that way, this won’t work—you _have_ to know that, I mean this can’t surprise you.”

“But no part of me _does_ feel that way! How many times do I have to say it?!”

“Then why did you say what you said, why did you touch me like that?!”

“Wh…What?” said Roger, blinking with clear confusion that John couldn’t really tell if he was faking or not. “Touched you like what?”

“Oh please,” John’s voice came out as a wail, “the whole fucking night to get under the fucking bandages, all you could fucking do to see what a freak I am wasn’t it?! I mean—Rog, I wear these for a fucking reason and not just because it gives me away if I don’t—and you just—and all that fucking machismo—talking about how good you are with—with—with bodies like mine,” he couldn’t say the word and felt a hot flush of embarrassment thinking about it. “Why would you fucking say all that?! Why would you sit there and tell me all about how much your ‘other girls’ liked what you could do with them?! I’m not one of them, I’m your first man and you’re—you’re…” John ran out of steam. He hoped Roger didn’t notice the way his voice hiccuped at the end of his ranting. Hoped he didn’t notice the way his eyes welled up, just slightly, not enough for tears to fall but enough that he wanted to hide.

“John,” Roger sighed, ran a tired hand across his forehead, “I didn’t know.”

“Clearly.” John sniffled. “I mean—I told you and you could barely look at me, and then you come back from the weekend and you’re suddenly all over me? Suddenly so excited about me, I—of course I’ve changed in your eyes. There’s no other explanation to it—”

“Yes there is,” Roger interrupted. “I know how it looks but that’s not the truth—”

“Then what is?!” John snapped, ignoring the errant tear that stained his cheek. “You’ve had a while to come up with a good story, so tell it.”

Roger clenched his jaw, like he might yell, like he had any right to yell about anything. “I didn’t know—I…It’s been a very strange two weeks for me.”

“You poor thing.”

“I know I acted like a tit when you told me, I—had no idea, and I had never heard of something like that,” said Roger. It was clear in his voice that he was choosing his words carefully, but they didn’t sound as if they’d been rehearsed. “I went home and—and I asked around about things like that. I’m pretty sure all my old mates think I want to be a woman now,” he added with a laugh that John begrudgingly shared. “I couldn’t even look it up in any of my old textbooks because I don’t know what this is called.” John hated to admit that he didn’t either. “I thought,” he sighed, “when I came back you’d just, you’d say if I did something wrong and until that point I could just—just do what I normally do.”

“Fuck you,” John stammered out, his cheeks wet with tears that didn’t match the anger in him. Or maybe they did. “You can’t do what you normally do, I’m not what you normally do!”

“I know that!”

“Then why—why—”

“I didn’t want you to think I had a problem with it!” said Roger.

“Sure—”

“Really!” Roger stumbled over the beginnings of a few sentences before finally settling on, “I didn’t want you to think you had anything to hide from me, I thought just—just jumping in headfirst would do that.”

“Jumping in headfirst.” John just glared at him. “Right—it wasn’t any morbid curiosity about my chest or my body it was just that you didn’t want me to feel ‘uncomfortable’!”

“Yes—”

“My fucking hero!”

“John—”

“No no!” he screamed, his words coming out faster than he could think them and his eye welling over in a way he wished he could control. “Why don’t we just get this over with huh?” John spat as he wriggled his shirt off over his head.

“What’re you doing?” said Roger, his voice tired and desperate in a way John didn’t understand.

“This is what you wanted, this is the last of your curiosities!” spat John. He reached for the safety pin on his side, fiddled with it, cursed when he couldn’t get it unfastened. And felt Roger’s hand cover his own.

“Would you stop it?” he snapped, holding John’s hand steady, preventing him from doing anything other than letting go of the stuck pin.

“Fuck you,” John muttered.

“John—I don’t know how many ways I can say this,” said Roger, standing up straight again, one leg between John’s, “I have never thought of you as anything but a man. I made a mistake—and you were pretty convincing that night, I really thought you were enjoying it. But—but one bad night doesn’t mean I don’t see you for who you are.”

“How’m I supposed to believe you?” said John, more genuine, less angry.

“Because,” Roger scoffed, “John if—if I wanted to be with a woman, I wouldn’t be with you.”

“What’s that mean?” John cocked his head. “That I’m ugly?”

“No--no, of course not—I—I mean,” he paused to get his words straight, “you make a bad woman. And if I wanted a woman you’d be a shit choice.”

“Wow,” said John flatly, “I’m swooning.”

“If you wanted a woman you wouldn’t go for me either,” laughed Roger. “And it’s not just because you don’t look like a woman, or dress like one, but you just—you _aren’t_ one. You’re the…the change I was looking for,” he added a bit meeker. “If I saw you as a woman, I wouldn’t still be your boyfriend, I would’ve ended it and found some other bloke to get off with or—honestly, I’d probably still be with Jo.”

“Boyfriend?” said John. He knew he was latching onto the most insignificant part of Roger’s words but it sounded the heaviest when he heard it.

“Yeah?” Roger grinned but confusion was clear on his face. “What’d you think I was?”

“I dunno, I didn’t think about it, I guess,” said John. “Didn’t think you thought about it.”

“Well,” Roger ran a hand through his hair, “if that’s—if that’s too much then—”

“It’s not too much,” John added quickly. Roger looked down at him like he felt he should say something, but clearly he couldn’t find the words, or couldn’t find the nerve to say them. “So you really don’t think of me that way?”

“No,” said Roger quickly. “I never have—I—I shouldn’t’ve just jumped in to sex but I really thought you’d prefer it like that just—just diving right in with no pretense. I didn’t mean to…do all this.” He reached down, brushed John’s hair back with a gentle touch. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” said John, a smile just barely tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“For what?”

“I,” he took in a sharp breath, “should’ve said when things were going wrong, shouldn’t’ve let you believe it was fine...should’ve picked up the phone.”

“Well,” Roger shrugged, “thankfully you can’t walk down a short flight of stairs.”

“Thankfully,” said John. Roger cupped his cheek, wiped the tracks of his tears with his thumb, and leant down to kiss him. John hummed, welcoming the familiar feeling, the familiar taste, the familiar closeness despite the awkward angle. But didn’t let him linger, didn’t want it to come across in any uncertain terms that things were alright, that they could move on like nothing ever happened. And Roger seemed to understand that when he pulled away.

Roger kicked his shoes off and told John to prop his foot up. John laid back on his bed and painstakingly hoisted his left leg up with him. Roger retrieved the makeshift icepack and slid in at the end of John’s bed, letting him rest his poor injured foot in his lap. He eased the icepack on and muttered quiet apologies for the shock of cold against his tender skin.

The tension hadn’t full dissipated. There was still a hostile tone to it all, still pent up anger stuck in both of their throats that didn’t have a place between them anymore, still hurt feelings that would need to heal. Still things they’d need to learn through each other. But at least Roger was there, silently caring for him. And when the ice started to melt, Roger threw it all in the sink and fixed a new one. When John said he wanted to sleep, Roger said he’d stay for that too. When John asked him to rub liniment into his bruises, Roger offered himself up.

He was careful about looking away when John unpinned his bandages, though John couldn’t really find it in himself to mind at this point. He took in a sharp breath when he saw the purples and yellows of his usual bruises blooming out from under the bandages and settled in behind him with the liniment to attend to the large blocks of bluish skin that vaguely resembled stairs.

“Do those bruises ever fade?” said Roger. “On your sides there?”

“If I stop wearing the bandages,” replied John. He could tell how hesitant Roger’s touch was. Probably hadn’t expected it to look so bad, probably hadn’t expected it to look bad at all. But he hadn’t bolted, and despite his touch being light and shaky, he was rubbing the liniment in, not saying a word about it.

“You don’t have to wear them,” he said. John let that sit. He was too tired to explain to Roger why it wasn’t much of a choice. How it kept him safe, how it made him feel better, how Roger’s opinion hardly if at all factored into his decision to wear his bandages. He didn’t understand it all, but he was trying, that was more than John could say for most. “Any better?”

“A bit,” he said. The bruises along his ribs were part of his reality and had devolved from immediate pain to a dull ache a long time ago. The bruises from his fall however were that usual immediate pain he’d been expecting and there wasn’t much a little liniment and rub down from Roger would do for them.

It wasn’t verbally discussed much, but John knew Roger was staying. He didn’t flinch when he turned out the lights for him or when he stripped down to slink under the covers with him. He gave up his chance at a pillow to keep John’s foot elevated and didn’t complain about how greasy John’s skin was from the oil, how soft his chest was when Roger rolled over on him. He nestled into the fabric of John’s pyjama shirt and asked John if it was okay that he lay there. John figured it was, and said so with a hand through Roger’s hair.

“Love you,” mumbled Roger, half asleep, his face mashed against John’s chest.

“Hm?” said John, much further from sleep than Roger.

“Love you,” he repeated.

John hoped Roger was too far gone to notice the way his heart pounded at the sound of those words.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is! The last chapter of this fic ! I've really enjoyed writing this, hopefully those of you that have read it enjoyed it as well <3 The comments on the previous chapters have been so lovely I'm so glad that a story like this got a positive response, I'm a little sad to see it go! And if anyone wants an epilogue let me know! This chapter is a little long at 17k but I hope it made the wait worth it <3 Please do comment if you enjoyed this chapter or this whole fic, I'd love to hear about it <33

John woke with a start, a sharp breath in and a confused and hurried assessment of his surroundings. The bed was Roger’s, the arms around his waist were Roger’s, the snoring in his ear was Roger, and the leg slotted between his own was Roger’s. A breathed a quick sigh of relief, from what he couldn’t know.

Something about not sleeping in his own bed, not sleeping alone, not sleeping in a room with two locks on the door and practiced security of his own privacy, always made him startle out of his sleep, which was never very restful, as if he were some wounded animal getting a few minutes shut-eye in predator territory. A night spent at Roger’s meant a day spent falling asleep all over himself during class. But it was worth it, he figured, to give Roger some reassurance he still wanted him.

He honestly hadn’t been sure he still wanted him for a few days after he’d fallen down the steps. Those days were spent being nursed back to health by Roger to ensure he could stand up on stage for their next performance. There were more fights than not those first few days of Roger insisting he help John walk and eat and occasionally dress. It turned into row after row, back and forth accusations of morbid curiosity and mistrust that ended with a calmer realisation that any help Roger offered was an overcompensation, an attempt to apologise for his original mistake. And any hurt John still felt from his perception of Roger’s treatment was less to do with Roger, more to do with his spotty past and insecurities. Good to know all that, hard to accept it and let it translate into their feelings.

It took until the bruises across John’s back healed before he settled into the idea, the truth Roger promised him, that it was just a slip of the tongue, and though Roger was mostly clueless, he wasn’t thoughtless. It was only then that he took Roger up on his offer to stay over. Even though it set him on edge, even though it meant waking up in a panic, it was a habit worth making if it meant being close to him.

He slipped out of the bed, easily sliding out of Roger’s sleepy grip, and stumbled around the room for his bandages. It was always best to get them on and off while Roger slept. Once his bruises faded, once he didn’t need any salve rubbed into the scuffs on his back, he preferred if Roger didn’t see any of it. Not his bandages, not what laid underneath them, but the tedious act of getting them back on was sometimes hard to avoid getting caught during.

“I can help,” croaked Roger’s sleepy voice from the bed.

“Er,” John started, a little surprised to hear him awake so soon. He pulled the bandage taut across the fullest point on his chest and held it down tight as he circled his ribs and kept his back to Roger. “Thanks but I’ve got it.”

“Mm,” Roger breathed in deep, “right,” John checked over his shoulder, saw Roger shifting up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “must be like offering to put your pants on for you.”

“A bit,” John laughed with a tight jaw. With the bandage tight, he pawed at Roger’s dresser for the pins he’d left there the night before. Roger brought his legs up crossed them and John could feel his eyes on him as he pinned everything into place. And though they’d been over it a thousand times, though Roger promised and proved a thousand times now that if he stared it was in love and adoration not curiosity and spectacle, John never felt more like a circus freak than when Roger stared at him when any form of his difference was obvious. “What’re you looking at?” He tried for a nonchalant, innocent tone, but it came out accusing.

“Nothing,” Roger said, undisturbed by John’s tone, still hazy from the sleep. “You know I thought we might go out.”

“Go out where?” John said quietly, his focus on finding something of Roger’s to wear, something quick, something to hide him before Roger could look any longer.

“Out,” Roger laughed and rested against his headboard. “Like people do.”

“Like to dinner?” John nearly ripped Roger’s top getting it off the hanger in Roger’s minuscule closet.

“Sure,” Roger yawned, “or maybe something less conspicuous.”

“Like what?” John struggled into the top in a hurry.

“I don’t know,” Roger sighed, “whatever you want.”

John turned back to him, his confidence back on the rise now that his outfit was half complete. He crossed his arms, thought long and hard about where he’d like to go, and tried to remember where they’d been last. In the three weeks since his fall, the closest to ‘out’ they’d been together was nights at the pub after gigs. And though their band took up a fair amount of their free time, before Easter, they’d always found a way to make time for each other. John wondered if maybe it felt harder to do it now because on some level he still didn’t believe Roger was genuine when he promised he didn’t care. Maybe on some level he figured something else would go wrong if they got too close.

“What’re you thinking so hard about?” Roger laughed.

“Hm?” John split from his rambling thoughts. “Just trying to remember the name of that film I wanted to see.”

“Ugh,” Roger groaned as dramatically as possible, “go on, not a film. Just sitting in silence for two hours, that’s not a date.”

“Well you ruled out dinner,” John scoffed. He searched Roger’s floor for the trousers he’d stripped off the night before. Roger’s trousers didn’t ever fit him around his hips and he wouldn’t bother taking shots at his own self esteem trying to stretch them out the one or two inches he needed.

“If I knew of a restaurant that would let me get within five feet of you, I’d go,” Roger looked pensive for a moment. “Are there any restaurants with private rooms?”

John, his trousers halfway up his thighs, grinned at Roger and shook his head, “we can barely afford dinner, you think we can afford some mystical private dining experience.”

“Just a thought,” said Roger through a grin. “I’ll think of something good.” He hopped up off his bed, tugged his shirt off as he did, and fumbled to John’s side, looking for something to wear as well, totally unperturbed why what little of him was uncovered. Totally unaware what a gift it was to feel that way.

“I’m hungry,” John said, excusing himself before his frustration, jealousy even, got the best of him.

“Save coffee for me,” Roger called after him, John didn’t bother responding.

He went to the kitchen with tense muscles he was desperate to relax. He slammed a mug down on the counter, poured the coffee Freddie made early and tried not to get so lost in thought he let it overflow.

He knew it wasn’t fair to assume Roger was gawking at him, he knew it wasn’t fair to see Roger’s comfort in his own body as boasting, he knew Roger meant it when he promised he wasn’t bothered by any part of John, when he said it was the last of his concerns. But something in John just couldn’t move past it. Every lingering hold on his waist, every kiss Roger pressed anywhere below his neck, every look that lingered anywhere but his face, every door held open, every little gesture of love of kindness, John skewed it. Made it hard to believe, hard to accept.

And he couldn’t know why. They’d talked it out, they’d spent days going back and forth. Hours upon hours of telling Roger everything he couldn’t say, everything John wouldn’t want to hear, every way he couldn’t touch him, every warning, all of it. And Roger accepted it with ease, never broke any boundary, and still lit up when John walked in a room. But still, there John was, trying his best not to be furious that Roger looked at him, that Roger _dared_ be blasé about his bare chest with him in the room.

“Morning, John,” Freddie said. His tone was chipper but his face was still swollen from sleep.

“Morning,” John croaked.

“You look like hell.”

“Do I?” John reached up self-conciously for his face.

“Roger must’ve really laid into you last night,” he said with a smirk and an elbow in John’s side. He set his mug down by John’s and refilled it.

“Er, sure,” John said lazily, too agitated to bother correcting Freddie.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Freddie leaning against the hob, “but normally Roger’s loud enough for the whole block.”

“Oh er,” John faked a laugh, took a sip of his far-too-hot coffee and shrugged.

“‘Oh er’ what?” said Freddie, eyeing him like John might be hiding something, and he was.

“Alright!” Roger called from his bedroom door. “I’m off!” He passed by the kitchen, stole a sip off Freddie’s coffee, and meandered back out on the back of Freddie’s chiding.

“Off—where’re you off to?” John called. He heard Roger rummage for his keys in their entryway.

“Meeting my mum for early lunch,” Roger said.

“You’re—you didn’t mention she was in town,” John said, hoping the irritation in his voice didn’t come off, mostly because he didn’t understand it. Roger wasn’t obligated to tell him when his mother came to town. But he did find it odd that it hadn’t come up.

“I’m sure I did,” Roger said as he opened the front door, “see you both later.”

“Goodbye, darling,” Freddie called, “don’t forget me!”

“Bye, Rog,” John said with no real care. He barely heard Roger’s goodbye in favour of pouring himself coffee. The door shut and Freddie shuddered with an overdramatic wail like a cold draught had blown in.

“I thought you two made up,” Freddie said. “I don’t think I can bear another fight.”

“We have made up,” John groaned as he sat down.

“Then, why’re you so cross about him having lunch with his mum,” Freddie sat down with him.

“I’m not cross that he’s having lunch—I’m not upset at all I’m just…confused,” John figured that was the best word for it, “as to why he wouldn’t have mentioned it to me…or invited me.”

“Probably didn’t think you’d care,” Freddie shrugged. “And why do you?”

“I don’t know,” John wrung his hand around his mug, “but it’s odd he didn’t mention it.”

“What does your anxiety-addled mind think is the reason he didn’t mention it?” Freddie said with a sigh.

“Dunno,” John stared at the subtle ripples across the surface of his coffee, “maybe he’s hiding me from her.”

“That’d be quite an achievement considering we all lived with her while we were touring Truro,” Freddie laughed.

“You know what I meant.”

“John,” Freddie reached across the table for his wrist, “you can’t expect him to tell his mother something like this—”

“I don’t,” John interrupted, “really, I don’t. But…but why didn’t he just tell me she was in town?”

Freddie sat back in his chair. “What’s actually wrong, John, why’re you so suspicious of him?”

“I’m not suspicious—”

“The man’s gone to lunch with his mother and you’re stewing like he’s got a mistress,” Freddie scoffed. “Go on, what’s bothering you? Has he put his foot in his mouth again?”

“No,” John said quickly, “no he’s been very careful, not a word out of line…” he rubbed his temple, “but I can’t help feel there might be something…not _wrong_ but something looming.”

“How’d’you mean looming? Like you think he’s not sincere in all that?”

John thought back to their first few days after he’d fallen down the stairs. The days when John wouldn’t let Roger touch him and Roger sat patiently at the end of his bed, with John’s swollen ankle in his lap, asking him all he could about what he ought not to do, apologising for not having done it sooner, and taking John’s biting and angry tone in his stride, either he knew he deserved it or knew it was born mostly out of frustration not anger.

And that’s what it’d been mostly. Irritation that Roger didn’t understand every facet of it the way John did, but how could he? How could he be faulted to such an extent for not living John’s life. Roger took John’s anger on the chin, but he didn’t have to, he’d done that for John’s sake. John knew he couldn’t spend his life angry with Roger that he didn’t understand something he’d never dealt with, angry that he didn’t have to deal with everything John did.

“I know he’s sincere,” John said. He shrugged, stirred his coffee.

“So why the panic over a lunch date with his mother?” Freddie said with a smirk.

“I don’t know, but something feels wrong,” John clenched his jaw.

“Wrong how?” Freddie leant forward, more invested now.

“I don’t know.”

“Well...do you have feelings for him still?”

John scoffed and met his gaze. “Of course I do, if I didn’t none of this would be a fucking issue.”

“Oh good,” Freddie breathed a sigh of relief, “I couldn’t handle another ‘where’s he gone’ episode.”

“A what?”

“When you stopped talking to him. It took him a long while of putting on a brave face before I gave him some whiskey and he just exploded,” Freddie said. “If you left him again it’d be an even bigger mess.”

“I didn’t leave him,” John said quietly, though it wasn’t totally untrue.

“Don’t tell him I said so, but I do think he’s in love with you,” Freddie smiled with his chin in his hand.

Even though it hadn’t come from Roger himself, it made John’s breath hitch. “He, er,” he hoped he wasn’t blushing, “he said so once, when he was falling asleep.”

“He did?” Freddie slapped the table. “So what’re you still so panicked about—he loves you—stop fighting!”

“It’s not that simple,” John snapped. “He may love me but…what if he’s doing it wrong?”

“He’s sworn up and down—how can you expect him to prove his thoughts beyond that? He sees you as a man, he can’t say it enough,” Freddie said.

“I know!” John groaned. “I fucking know—but how can I know that—that being with me, seeing me and touching me won’t change his mind—and if it does—what the fuck do I do?”

“Are…you two not—not sleeping together?” Freddie said.

“No,” John rubbed his eye. “I can barely bear to be seen unbound in a shirt. I couldn’t…I couldn’t let all that…”

“Oh John,” he reached again for John’s wrist, rubbed comforting circles in the thin skin there, just above his pulse. “Have you told him this?”

“What’s to tell?” John felt his eyes well up and hoped tears wouldn’t fall, he could only handle one humiliation at a time. “He’s done all he can, I can’t make him—force him to promise me all the things he’s already promised me. It won’t help.”

“Well,” Freddie looked pensive for a moment, “what about that first attempt? The first time you tried to sleep with him. You went in guns blazing, didn’t seem like you gave a shit about how you look back then did you?”

“No, but back then I thought he understood,” John blinked back his tears.

“Well, don’t you think he understands now?” Freddie said.

“Yes but I thought he understood before too,” John wiped the errant tears off his cheeks. “And I’m so mad at him,” he took in a shaking breath, “for shit I can’t explain. I just—I want it to be easy—I want to know every time he touches me or looks at me that he’s looking _at me_ , but I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to _know_ ,” his breathing came quicker, more uneven, “and none of this would be a problem if I were normal.”

“Hey,” Freddie said with a shake of the table, “you are normal.” John just stared at him with red rimmed eyes and a fed up expression. “Okay—you’re not common, but you’re not a freak. You’ve got different looks but you’re not the challenge you think you are. You’ve got to get out of your own head about this—let Roger help you get out of your own head.”

“But how can he, when it’s like pulling teeth to be with him, I’m watching everything he does like his next breath he’ll use my old name or something,” John said, roughly wiping his cheeks.

“I don’t know what you ought to do,” Freddie said flatly. “I don’t know how to make you trust him but I know you should, I know he’s worthy of it.”

“I know he is,” John said, though, still, part of him wasn’t sure.

“Buck up darling,” Freddie wiped his cheeks with his thumb. “The most beautiful man I’ve ever met is in love with you, if you can’t find a way to cheer about that you need medication.”

John smirked and nodded. “He hasn’t said it properly yet.”

“Sure he has,” Freddie scoffed, “he nursed you back to health for five full days after you fell. What’s clearer than that?”

“Words,” John said.

“Roger’s never been good with those.”

“Trust me I know,” John said with a quiet laugh.

~~~

John stared straight ahead in class, unable to focus on what was being taught, unable to remember what subject it was, his thoughts totally enraptured by what Freddie’d said. By trying to come up with a way to get past what he considered was an irrational fear. Of Roger, of himself, of how the two might mix. But no solutions came to mind, just more potential problems, potential roadblocks they might one day have to navigate. He wondered still why he hadn’t told John his mother’d driven all the way up from Truro. Maybe Roger preferred to keep his real life, and his life with John separate. Maybe that was the real reason he hadn’t invited John down for Easter despite knowing he’d be spending it alone. Maybe it hadn’t been because he was so shaken by John’s confession, maybe John just didn’t fit in his life anywhere outside of his flat. Maybe that was why he never wanted to go to a restaurant. It wasn’t the frustration with having to act like friends, having to sit far apart, it was because he didn’t want to be seen, didn’t want anyone to notice and ask.

Class was dismissed before his thoughts trailed any further. He hadn’t even bothered to pretend to take notes and had nothing to pack up. He hurried out before any classmates could catch up. He heard his name called but ignored it as he threw the door open, flew out, and nearly tripped over his own feet when he saw Roger. A ways down the hall, on a bench, a sandwich in one hand, a note pad in the other. For a moment, John wondered if he ought to pretend he hadn’t seen him and just dash in the other direction. Before he could decide Roger glanced up, waved and slipped his notepad in his jacket pocket. John regained control of himself, awkwardly waved back a bit too late for Roger to see, and met him halfway.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he laughed.

“I’m not scared.”

“You’re white as a sheet,” Roger teased. “Don’t worry, I won’t embarrass you in front of your friends.”

“I—I wouldn’t be embarrassed,” John said, wondering then if that meant Roger would be embarrassed if the situation were reversed. “How was lunch,” John said, nodding at Roger’s half eaten sandwich.

“Light,” Roger groaned. “Mum eats like a fucking hummingbird. Felt bad ordering anything too big and keeping her waiting.”

“Mm,” John said, “so how was she?”

Roger’s hint of a smile faded. “Good, fine.” He shrugged. “I came by because I was thinking for our big night out,” he laughed, “we could go down, just a short ways, to this lake I used to go to when I first moved out.”

“Lake?” John adjusted the bag slung over his shoulder, it always dug into his bandages in a way that simultaneously ached and stung. “Why a lake?”

“Well I figure we can get something to eat and bring it out by the water, air’s really clean out there, it’s nice, and then we can swim—I haven’t been in ages and who knows when I’ll get back down to Truro for the beach.”

“Who knows?” John cocked his head. “You visit home all the time.”

“Sure but,” he cleared his throat, “y’know—so how’s that sound?”

“Er,” John almost laughed, “I can’t swim.”

“What—of course you can—”

“I know how to,” John said, then awkwardly patted his chest, “but I can’t.”

“Oh,” Roger pursed his lips, “can that not get wet.”

“No,” John said, averting his eyes like the whole student body might hear.

“That’s alright, it’s still a great view,” Roger said quickly moving on.

“So a picnic in your van in the middle of nowhere,” John smirked, still a little red, “sounds a lot like our last date.”

“Well—alright, I’ll come up with a little more flash—”

“I’m kidding, it sounds fun,” John said, though it didn’t. Their last night like that had ended in disaster.

“I’ll think of something better,” Roger said. He put a hand on John’s shoulder, as close as they could get. “Tell me when you’re not too busy studying or electrically engineering and we’ll go.”

“Sounds good,” John said, adding quickly, “oh so, you didn’t say, what’d you and your mum talk about, what was the occasion?”

“Hm?” Roger cocked his head. “No occasion, just saying hello. She was visiting a friend up north, caught me on the way down.”

“Ah,” John said, scrambling for some way to pry more but before he could Roger’s hand slipped from his shoulder, and he called a quick goodbye with a wink as he hurried down the hall.

He wasn’t sure why he wanted to pry, wasn’t sure what he thought he might uncover, what horrible thing might lay in the conversation between the two of them. As if there’d be anything to find, as if he and his mother were somehow chatting about what a freak he was. But then why not just mention she was in town, why keep secret what they’d talked about.

~~~

He told Roger that by the weekend he’d have an open docket. He figured he could use the few days before then to do as Freddie advised and to, by some means, wrap his head around the fact that Roger wasn’t going to betray him, wasn’t going to change his mind about him, wasn’t going to hurt him again. But how. How as he supposed to convince himself something he couldn’t possibly know the validity of. He wanted it to be true of course, he hoped it was true, but he couldn’t know for sure until it was too late, until something happened so far down the line, so debilitating that John may well have to leave the band, have to leave his friends.

“I don’t know what to do, honestly I don’t,” John said. He sat in one of Brian’s student’s desks, his lunch spread out and barely touched. Brian was made to eat lunch somewhere accessible in case a student needed help or impromptu tutoring, but none ever did. Brian once said he wasn’t sure his students heard his many announcements about his availability. John knew, somewhere deep down, that Brian knew that no student wanted to spend any free time getting tutored in physics even if it meant failing the class.

“Break up with him,” Brian said flatly, a stack of tests in front of him.

“Just like that?”

“If you think there’s a chance he’ll do something so unforgivable you’ll have to leave all our lives forever? Yes, please break it off before that happens,” Brian said with a laugh and an enormous bite of his sandwich.

“But…but I don’t want to break it off,” John said sheepishly.

“John, you know as well as I do that there comes a point where you have to trust him without knowing each and every reaction to each and every scenario,” Brian said with a shrug. “That’s part of relationships, you’re expected to give them the power to hurt you, and vice versa, and you just have to hope they don’t misuse it.”

“But he’s already misused it—”

“I understand why you were upset, but John, it was a _mistake_ ,” Brian said. “For whatever underlying subconscious issues you think may be there, he never meant to hurt you. And even if it was a Freudian slip not just a grammar cock up, he’s got to be past it now.”

“Does he?” John sighed and sank into his seat. “He knows what not to say now, he knows how not to upset me, that doesn’t mean he’s not still thinking of me as a…as something else.”

Brian looked at him, thoughtful and pensive, always so careful with his words and responses. A trait John had always loved about him, but he didn’t care for his suspenseful pauses. “If you think he’s worth it, it’s a risk you’ll have to take.”

“Like it’s so easy,” John grumbled.

“I know it’s not but…look, you didn’t hear it from me, but I think he might well love you,” Brian said. John’s mouth twitched in the beginnings of a grin. It’d be nicer to hear it from Roger, but it still jolted him full of electricity to hear it at all. “He really dotes on you, I think his issue was just not knowing how to dote on a man, especially one with such specific boundaries.”

“Since when does he dote on me?” John said, curious as much as accusatory. “I haven’t met any of his old mates outside of Tim and a few bandmates—and that was ages ago anyway. Every date we’ve had has been in the shadows—he doesn’t even know that you know about it.”

“That’s not his fault, this is all new to him,” Brian said, “he doesn’t know how secret this has to be, frankly, I don’t either—and I assume neither do you.”

“I suppose I don’t,” John admitted. He took an enormous bite of his sandwich, pretended not to notice the way Brian stared at him, and sank into his seat as he chewed. “Did I tell you his mum came to town and he didn’t tell me.”

“I think,” Brian said, his eyes back on the test paper in front of him.

“Didn’t say a word and wouldn’t talk about it afterwords,” John said. “That’s weird isn’t it?”

“It’s…” Brian set his pen down, “it’s not normal but I wouldn’t say abnormal, how interesting could him and his mother’s chatting be to you?”

“Well—why wouldn’t he just tell me?” John said.

“It might be personal,” Brian said, as if it were obvious. “It might be about his father, or maybe that brand new stepdad of his, or maybe his sister’s up to it again, it could be many many things that are not Rog and his mum going back and forth about your anatomy.”

“I,” John sighed, suddenly feeling a little stupid and a lot self absorbed, “I never said that’s what they were doing. I was only curious why it was a secret.”

“Knowing Roger, he didn’t think it mattered,” Brian said. “But you’ve got to stop assuming anything he doesn’t outright tell you is something seedy.”

“I know I do,” John rubbed his tired eyes.

“I know you do too,” Brian said with a tired sigh. “I can’t imagine how hard it must be to trust someone with everything when you’re someone like you, but it’s Roger. If you can’t trust him, you can’t trust a soul.”

“You think?” John said, though he already knew Brian was right. Roger did all he could to keep John’s secret locked up, the secret of eachother, then of himself. And despite his slip ups, he did all he could to make John forget all that bothered him, all that stressed him. He knew he did the same for Freddie. Freddie’d given John a glimpse of a similar secret, but he knew Roger knew the whole thing, knew he’d never let Freddie feel any lesser for it. Despite all his flash and his crass exterior, he was caring, protective even. Clumsy and a bit uneducated in things not his own, but not unwilling to bridge those gaps.

“I know,” Brian said flatly. “When’s your date by the way?”

“Seven,” John said, “he wanted to go swimming.”

“Well,” Brian laughed, “like I’ve said before he doesn’t always think before he speaks.”

“That’s clear,” John said with only a hint of bitterness. “I think we’re just having a secret dinner away from anyone who might dare look us in the eye.”

“What’s that mean?” Brian said, his smile fading. “You know it’s not particularly safe to just—”

“I know,” John groaned, “it’s just—it’s hard to not feel like a secret when he hides his mother from me and plans a date for us at some lake a thirty minute drive out of the way.”

“I think you’re reading too far into these things, I think you’re looking for an excuse not to trust him so you can leave before whatever bomb you’ve imagined he’s got behind his back blows up,” Brian said, like it was nothing. And though it was the most obvious answer, John hadn’t considered it.

“Well,” John stammered, “are you saying I ought to just sleep with him and get it over with?”

“No,” Brian laughed, “sleep with him if you want but I don’t think your excuse not to should be that you’re afraid of what he’ll think. If you’re too tightly wound about it, so be it, but don’t blame him for it.”

“That’s all well and good coming from you,” John snapped. He was getting rather exhausted hearing from people so far removed from his situation what he ought to be doing, how he ought to feel about himself and his body, how he ought to use it and let other use it.

“It is,” Brian said, almost apologetically, “but you did ask me for my advice.”

“Last time I do that!” John snapped, ignoring the grin on Brian’s face.

~~~

It wasn’t unusual for John’s stomach to turn over itself when he knew Roger was on his way to pick him up, but it was normally giddiness, excitement, not anxiety. Anxiety he couldn’t pin down, anxiety for something he didn’t know about. Like tonight might be the night Roger slipped up again and cut him deep enough that it might never heal. As if doing anything other than staying over at his, smoking, letting him kiss his way up and down his neck, listening to music, and eating meager dinners with the telly on would somehow open the door for Roger to fuck it up. As if behaving more like a couple, going out for the first time in nearly a month, would mean Roger’s filter might suddenly disintegrate, they might have a repeat of their last night out that ended in tears for John and speeding ticket for Roger.

His palms were sweaty when he heard Roger honk from the street below. He couldn’t remember what lie he told his roommates about him, what lie he’d given them as to why he was being picked up so late, why he so rarely slept in his own bed anymore, but whatever it had been, band issues, late practices, they bought it. So he was vague in his goodbyes, but silently hoping someone might somehow intuit his feelings, might wish him luck.

When they didn’t, he hurried down the steps and took a sharp breath in as he got closer and closer to Roger’s van. He saw him grin through the window, and hoped the way his hand shook around the handle wasn’t obvious to him.

“Didn’t keep you waiting did I?” Roger said with a grin, watching the way John shifted up in the seat, the way he slammed the door.

“Right on time,” John said. Roger hummed, mumbled something and shifted across the bench seat to John, held his waist and kissed him like it’d been weeks not a day since he’d last seen him. It was almost embarrassing how effective it was in calming his nerves, in reminding him that, yes Roger wasn’t the most eloquent or most tactful, but he did want John.

“Okay,” Roger pulled away with a sad sigh that John mimicked, “okay dinner.”

“What’s the plan?”

“Well,” Roger said with a wide grin, “I had a good idea.”

“Past tense?”

“Present tense as well,” he put the car in first gear and was in second by the end of John’s block, “so we can’t do restaurants around here or half your class will see and get strange about it, so I was thinking of places further south by the lake—”

“Still doing the lake?”

“Why’d you say it like that?” Roger scoffed. “I mean it, it’s beautiful out there.”

“I’m game, just curious,” John said, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Well, I remembered this great pub down there, it’s got live music, bit of an older crowd I will say but that’s fine for us, it only means the foods better quality so,” Roger looked to John expectantly, John wasn’t sure what exactly he expected from him, “if you’re not keen on eating in public we can just get takeaways but—”

“Oh—oh no, no I’m keen,” John said, “it sounds nice.”

“I hope it is,” Roger said with a nervous laugh. “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen it and the live music isn’t on every night but it’s a weekend so I’m hoping they’ve pulled out all the stops.”

“You’ve got to let them know _the_ Roger Taylor is coming,” John said with a smirk.

“Please, if I tell them that we’ll be mobbed by the press.”

“I forgot,” John reached for the radio knob, “I’m dating a celebrity.”

“How could you forget?” Roger laughed.

The drive was long, but felt short. John shifted gears for Roger, and Roger kept his hand on John’s thigh for the ride up. And after a bit of circling they found the pub Roger just barely remembered. Judging by the noise outside, there was live music inside but not much of a crowd, just as Roger’d hoped.

They found a table in the back, furtherest from the music, though that didn’t bother them much. Some folksy pair was playing with rickety voices that Roger was trying, very hard, not to laugh at, but not always succeeding. They got a couple pints, and pooled their coins together for the cheapest food item on the menu, a sandwich that the waitress promised would be enough for two. It was local enough that John figured Roger’s big eyes might get the staff to overfill their single sandwich with extra corned beef. Roger evidently thought the same judging by the way he batted his eyelashes.

“You’re a whore,” John teased once she’d walked off.

“I’m getting us dinner,” Roger said. “I’m whoring myself to feed you and this is the thanks I get?” The shriek of an untrained high note rattled the glasses and made Roger hold his breath as his face twisted up in a torturous attempt not to laugh. John swatted at him from across their little table but couldn’t hold back a few laughs of his own.

It wasn’t long before a blues trio replaced the folksy duo and though the music was less off the wall, it was also less horrible. And when their sandwich came, split on two plates, John was sure there was extra on there. He could only roll his eyes at the way Roger thanked the waitress, as if without a thank you she might charge them for the extra.

Roger’d been right, the other customers were older, forties, fifties, mostly men, mostly drinking, but in a quiet way, a resigned way. The sort of way John’s dad would drink. Like he could believe, couldn’t bear to see how his own life turned out. Of course, John always figured his dad only wore that expression around him.

“It’s a bit sad in here isn’t it?” John said under his breath.

“Wasn’t so tragic last time,” Roger said. “Course I was much drunker last time.”

“Well it’s also only,” John checked his watch, “eight. Maybe it’ll really liven up.”

“Maybe,” Roger’s foot planted between John’s under the table, he shifted forward, trying to slot their legs together John figured by the way he jostled around.

“What’s the goal?” John laughed.

“You’re so far,” Roger replied, entirely sincere.

“I’m right here.”

Roger just glared in response, a hint of a smile starting at the corner of his mouth. “Here.” He reached his hand under the table, brushed against John’s thigh.

“Here what?” John said with a blush.

“Hold it,” Roger said, tapping his finger tips on John’s thigh.

“Like,” John checked around but reached his hand under the table to meet Roger’s, “like that?” Roger nodded and grinned at the initial brush of his fingertips before he threaded their fingers together and let them rest, a little uncomfortably a little awkwardly on John’s knee. “Someone could see,” John said as he manhandled his sandwich with one hand.

“Oh please,” Roger rolled his eyes, “no one in here is young enough to see this far across the room.”

“You’re one to talk, blind melon,” John teased.

“My eyes aren’t that bad,” Roger laughed.

“I bet you don’t even know what I look like. Big, blue, beautiful, and entirely useless your eyes are.”

“But they are beautiful,” Roger laughed.

“You’ll never be able to see them for yourself,” John said with a sigh, “it’s like a Greek tragedy.”

Roger grinned and took a clumsy one-handed bite of his food, his expression triumphant when he succeeded.

“You two alright?” said the waitress, her voice jolting them both out of their skin. Roger hadn’t noticed her, John certainly hadn’t either. And neither did a very smooth job of covering up their guilt as they ripped their hands away from each other. “Need a er,” her eyes fell awkwardly on their hands as they reappeared from under the table, then onto their stunned expressions, “another drink?”

“We’re fine thanks,” Roger said, his eyes focused on his plate like his life depended on it. She walked off without another word, but Roger’s eyes followed when she did, John’s as well, both curious if she’d turn and point and whisper to the barman, or the other customers. And though there was no pointing or sneering, she did stop off to say something quiet to the barman, and though there was no head turning and jeering, John’s blood ran cold. “C’mon,” Roger said, tapping the table in front of John, “we ought to leave.” He slammed their collective coins on the table and picked up what little was left of his sandwich.

John did the same, and despite having paid for it, he did feel like a petty thief when he carried his sandwich out behind Roger. Both walked with an awkward hurry in their steps, anxiety induced panic that prevented them from running out, as if a mad dash might provoke something. They couldn’t be sure the waitress noticed, or put two and two together rather, and there was no way of knowing if she minded, or if she told the staff, or if the night would’ve ended with a beating had Roger not hurried them out, but either way John knew anymore time spent inside would’ve been agony and when Roger’s van doors shut and locked he couldn’t help feel more at ease.

“See—we shouldn’t try restaurants, we don’t have the look for it,” Roger said.

“At least we got food out of it,” John said. He huffed when the van lurched forward and back and out of the carpark. “No one’s chasing us.”

“I know,” Roger said. “But I’d rather not give anyone the chance. Good dates don’t usually include an walloping.”

“You saying you couldn’t take all those big burly men in a fight?” John said with a laugh.

“Please, I could barely take Freddie in a fight,” Roger laughed. “It might be a blessing in disguise, the lake’ll be empty all night I’m sure, may as well get as much time there as we can, pubs are two a penny.”

“You and this lake,” John laughed.

“You haven’t seen it, it’s perfect,” Roger said. “Great for swimming, great for fishing, great for just—just staring at it.”

“You’re such a beach bum, I can hardly picture you in a lake, how’d you even find this place?” John said.

“Chance on the way back from a gig with a band I was in before Smile—sorry, _Queen_ ,” Roger added with a smirk. “I suppose I still prefer the beach but who knows when I’ll be back to Cornwall and this is so close.”

“What d’you mean ‘who knows’?” John scoffed. “ _You_ knows.”

“Oh do I knows?” Roger teased. John smiled but it faded quick as that needling curiosity about lunch, days before, wormed its way back into the forefront of John’s mind. He bit his tongue, tried to force those thoughts back, tried to remember all Brian had said about it not being about him, about Roger having a whole slew of innocent reasons not to mention it. “Why do you look so pensive?”

“Do I?” said John, knowing full well he did. “Thinking about Cornwall, reminded me of your mum.” Not his smoothest segue but it got him where he wanted to be, though he felt a pang of guilt even bringing it up. “You never said why she’d come all the way up to London, what was the occasion?”

“Did I not?” Roger shrugged. “She was visiting a friend in Aberdeen, I missed her on the way up, her trains were too close together, but she had a few hours to kill on the way back to home, so I saw her.”

“Ah,” John said, “and I know you said you definitely mentioned her coming to be but I don’t think you did.” He could feel himself getting too invested, too accusatory over something he only had a vague idea of.

Roger turned to him, a half-hearted smirk on his face, like he could see right through John. “I didn’t tell you.”

“Why not,” John said, holding his breath.

“Because I told her,” Roger replied.

“Told her what?”

“Told her about me,” he said with a tense laugh, “about you—about the two of us.”

“You...” John stared at him with a look of disbelief, one that made Roger laugh.

“I didn’t tell you she was coming because I—I don’t know, I felt like if I could keep it to just myself, could really focus and plan every word out, then I’d be fine. I didn’t want anyone to know and start trying to cheer me on,” Roger said with a tired exhale.

“Is that really why?”

Roger cocked his head, stared at John for a second before making a right turn, “why else?”

“I—I don’t know, I got it in my head you didn’t want me to see her or something—not that I would’ve demanded to crash your family lunch, but, dunno, thought maybe you wanted to keep me,” John shrugged, “separate from the rest of your life.”

“What?” Roger scoffed. “You are my life, how could I separate you from it?”

“It,” John could feel himself blushing, “it’s just paranoia, not realistic I know.” Roger seemed satisfied with that answer, the vague look of panic in his eyes fading and his thumb gently stroking across John’s thigh where his grip stayed soft. “Well—how did it go?”

“Oh,” Roger sighed, “could’ve been a lot better.”

“I can’t see your mother being too…” the word bigoted felt too strong so he implied it with a roll of his wrist.

“She,” Roger rubbed his temple, “I don’t know, I thought she might’ve known already or something. Don’t mothers have intuition for that sort? Like how twins can read eachother’s thoughts?”

“Can twins do that?”

“I don’t know,” he sighed, “but—well, point is she didn’t know. I told her and she got all…upset. She thought I was with Freddie, and started frantically asking all sorts about us living together. It was pretty humiliating, honestly,” Roger said it with a laugh but John knew the feeling all too well. The feeling of imagining a casual welcome from his parents and getting a rather cold and steely rejection. “But I think by the end of lunch she was alright—not happy, but, her head was wrapped ‘round it I think. I hope anyway.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine by the end of the weekend,” John said. “If she didn’t storm out that’s already a good sign. When I told my mum she called the vicar over.”

“What—was the vicar going to make you a girl or something?”

“I genuinely think she thought a demon led me to believe I wasn’t her daughter and I needed an exorcism to get me back into dresses,” John said with a smirk, “so the fact that your mum sat and listened to you through all of lunch is a good sign.”

“I suppose,” Roger said, “she did stare at me the whole time though, like I was a whole new person to her.”

“It’ll fade, I promise,” John said, both knowing he didn’t have the authority to make that promise. “That probably means Clare’ll take it well too?”

“Hm?” Roger looked out at the road, confused for a moment before laughing and adding, “I told Clare ages ago.”

“You did?”

“Right after you joined the band, I worked it out with Freddie why I was so, I dunno, _obsessed_ by you, and,” Roger giggled, “I rang Clare up said ‘you’ll never guess what I am’, and _she did!”_

“What?!” John laughed, half joy half jealousy as he recalled how his sister still wouldn’t spend time alone with him if he insisted she use his new name. “She guessed it just like that?”

“She told me the Bowie records were a big hint,” Roger said.

“Wow,” John laughed, trying not to let the bitterness seep through, “well—then she’ll help bring your mum around, it’ll all be fine.”

“I think it might,” Roger turned to him and added, “and I don’t mean to rub it in.”

“I’m happy for you Rog, really,” John said, and he meant it, but he wished he could say the same for himself.

“Have you told your parents? Or sister?”

“About you?” Roger nodded. John just laughed. “No, I haven’t.”

“Isn’t the hard part done?” Roger said. “Are they really going to be blind sided by this after all you’ve already told them?”

“Well—thing is, if I tell them I’m with you they’re not going to see this for…for what it is, they’ll look at it as you,” John groaned, he could practically hear his mother saying it back to him, “as you saving me from myself, making me a proper wife—”

“Ah,” Roger flinched, “ah, okay don’t tell them.”

“If they were kinder they’d know by now,” John said, hoping that was enough, and judging by the way Roger’s thumb started up rubbing circles into his thigh again, he figured it was.

He shifted gears again for Roger to get across the dirt road that led down a brightly lit street, something John hadn’t expected from a dirt through-road. The streetlamps were old but bright enough that when the lake came into view, John first noticed it by the glint of the yellow light on the water, mixing effortlessly with the glow of the moon. Roger pulled over but let the van block most of the road, too eager to worry about how much space he’d left.

Roger, tattered old picnic blanket under his arm, led him down the slight incline. Overgrown grass and dandelions turned to pebbles and the slight ebb and flow of the water, almost like a shoreline, but narrow and calmer, with more trees as shelter from the road up behind them. A dock led out a few yards into the water, just to where it dropped off and gave way to real depth.

“Here’s good,” Roger said as he laid out the blanket across the bridge between grassy earth and pebbled shore.

“Good for what?” John said, happily sitting where Roger’d spread the blanket out and stretching his legs while he did. Roger flopped down next to him and rested back on his palms.

“What’d’you mean good for what?”

“I mean what’re we gonna do?” John said.

“I dunno,” Roger laughed, “admittedly most of what I’ve done here is swim and fish, but it’s still nice, isn’t it?”

“It is,” John reassured him, his eyes locked on the way the ripples in the lake caught the light, bright enough that at the right angle John could fool himself into thinking it was day.

“There used to be a tyre swing up,” Roger pointed to a tree a bit away with an overhanging branch, “up there. Lots of kids around here I guess.”

“Where’s it gone?”

“It came off once when I tried it,” Roger said with a guilty laugh, “apparently, it was _just_ for kids.”

John laughed and chided him for ruining some poor child’s swing, so beyond repair evidently that they hadn’t bothered to fix it back up. Roger had more stories like that though. He’d come up only a handful of times but done enough damage each visit. John sat, enthralled, listening to stories about how he’d accidentally got a fish hook through his thumb, how he’d overturned his and a friend’s boat two or three times. How he’d nearly died once trying to dive in to the water with a flip but instead knocked himself unconscious on the edge of the dock and his friends had frantically pulled him back out. Though John knew that story turned out alright, he still felt the need to scold Roger for his carelessness.

“You’ve got such a life,” John said.

“How’s’at?” he replied.

“I mean you’ve done so many things,” John said, “I don’t have any stories like that under my belt.”

“You’re two years younger,” Roger said. “And you’ve had…other things to deal with. You haven’t missed out on life just because you haven’t done stupid shite like me.”

“I suppose,” John said, “but I don’t have a single story like that.”

“Sure you do, you make memories like that all the time with us—you’re a performing musician, dating a very famous and very handsome drummer,” Roger added with a laugh.

“Well, I guess I’m making up for lost time,” John said with a fleeting grin.

“No such thing as lost time,” Roger said matter-of-factly. “And there’s always chances to make more memories like that.”

“You think?” John said. “You don’t think I’m past my prime?”

“You’re twenty,” Roger howled, “you’ve got all the time in the world to be wild. So have I, so has anyone, just up to what you want to do.” John nodded weakly, unsure how much of that he agreed with. “If you’re so worried about it, why don’t we do something worth retelling?”

“Right now?”

“Right now,” Roger said. “Let’s go swimming.”

“I can’t,” John said out of hand, before he’d even thought it through.

“Sure you can, you said you knew how.”

“Right but my bandages can’t really—” John began.

“Then take ‘em off,” Roger interrupted. He grinned at John, stood and started tugging his boots off. “Not like I brought trunks, it’s just us two.”

“But—but we’re—this is in public,” John said, scrambling for each word.

“Look around,” Roger gestured to the dark trees and the silent night air, “where’s the public?”

“But,” John said, self-consciously draping an arm across his middle and staring up at Roger like he very much regretted saying anything about wanting to live a little faster.

“I won’t look,” Roger said calmly. “You can ditch all your gear at the end of the dock, right into the water. C’mon—this’ll be a good one for the books.”

John thought for a moment, as if he was thinking it over, but realised quite quickly he’d already decided. “Okay.”

“Alright!” Roger said, excitedly peeling his shirt off. John struggled out of his boots and laughed at just how quickly Roger could undress, always as if his life depended on it. He was down to nothing by the time John got his second boot off and didn’t waste time waiting for John before running down the dock and splashing into the moonlit water. “Hurry up or I’ll drown a bit so you have to come rescue me.”

“Just ‘a bi’t?” John laughed as he made his way down the dock, still checking over his shoulder like someone might see at any moment. Roger swam up, his hair plastered in all directions across his face and grinned. “Alright, close your eyes or turn or something.”

Roger brushed his hair back and waded out further in the water, gave John all the space he might need and turned his back to him. John kept an eye on him, kept his ears open for the sound of the boys from his neighbourhood that used to knock him off his bicycle on his route home. He peeled his shirt off, folded it up and added his folded up trousers to the pile before he slipped his pants off, added them and the balled up socks to the pile. And in a panic to cover himself, he sat down on the edge of the dock, somehow that helped him feel less exposed. At least until he got his bandage off. He didn’t bother folding that one, too panicked to get covered by something, even if that something was lake water.

He jumped in and nearly forgot to hold his breath on the way down. Nearly forgot how good water felt on his skin, nearly forgot how light, how calm he felt in the water. All those times as a child they’d visit a beach, his aunt’s house with a swimming pool, a hotel with one, there was something intoxicating about floating in and above the water. He hadn’t realised how much he missed it until he resurfaced.

“There he is!” Roger said with a grin, paddling his way back over. John grinned through the wet strands of his hair, and very carefully marked how much of Roger he could see. If the light reflected perfectly, there was no way to see Roger’s body through the surface, but at any other angle, his pale skin shone through in unclear abstract blobs obscured by the rippling water. He wondered how obscured he might be. “I was worried you might’ve forgotten how. You took so long to come back up.”

“It took me a moment to remember,” John said with a laugh, awkwardly bringing his hand up across his chest the closer Roger got. He floated up, grinned at John and floated next to him, rested against the underwater mount of the dock with him, pressed his shoulder to John’s and turned toward him, let their legs tangle together, and pressed his chest against John’s arm still clinging tightly to his ribs to keep himself covered.

“You don’t have to do that you know,” Roger said, “you can’t see anything clearly through the water and I’m not looking anyway.”

“I know,” John mumbled. Roger’s leg, limply falling between his but never going higher than his knee, was soft and warm, so was his hand resting on his lower back, so was his chest pressed against John’s rigid elbow. A rigid elbow and a firm grip protecting his privacy until he knew for certain it wouldn’t ruin him. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t answer how you think I want to hear it, answer honestly,” John said, shyly meeting his eyes like there was nothing more embarrassing.

“Deal,” Roger said.

“What do you think of my body?” John said, quiet enough that maybe Roger wouldn’t ever hear it and they’d never have to talk about it again.

“What’s that mean?”

“It means what do you think of it,” John said, a little too sharp. “I know you haven’t seen much of it but you know what you will see so, tell me how you feel, and don’t sugarcoat.”

Roger looked at him, confused and frozen for a moment. John grit his teeth and reminded himself what Freddie and Brian had told him since the beginning. Roger wasn’t good with words, and he had to trust his intention before his delivery. Even if the delivery hurt, even if he used all the wrong words said all the wrong things, he had to remember he didn’t intend it.

“I don’t really.”

“You don’t what?”

“Think of it, feel any certain way about it, it’s just your body,” Roger said.

“You have to think something,” John snapped. “I’m different by huge margins, Rog, you can’t tell me you have no thoughts about any of that.”

“Well—I do have thoughts but they don’t plague me—”

“Just tell me what they are,” John pleaded, his desperate tone stunning Roger.

He stared at him, head cocked and expression worried. “What’s this about?”

“I just—I have to know,” John said with a quiver in his voice, “just tell me what you’re thinking.” Roger eyed John, John kept his look of sincerity, and unflinchingness, hoping Roger wouldn’t fight him on it, hoping Roger would just say whatever was on his mind without a rambling explanation from John as to why he needed it.

“Alright,” Roger sighed, bumping their hips together underwater. “I don’t know if this is the proper way to think about it so, bear with me, but I don’t see you really as all that different.”

“That doesn’t help me, Rog, because we are,” John said with a frustrated laugh.

“Ah,” Roger held up a hand, “but are we?”

“I,” John squinted at him, “what?”

“I know we don’t look the same, but we don’t look all that different,” Roger said. “Not the way I see it. Y’know, you’ve got a body, just like anyone else.”

“So,” John sighed, trying hard not to get frustrated. He couldn’t tell him it wasn’t good enough to just see past all of it, he had to accept it, “so you just don’t notice the differences?”

“I do,” Roger said, “but they don’t bother me, or give me any pause. You’re a man, you’ve got a man’s body, and it doesn’t look like I thought it might but, I don’t know, it’s not a big deal in the end.”

“It’s not?” John said quietly, breathing in small breaths out of fear he might break the spell of Roger saying exactly what he needed to hear. He dropped the arm draped across his chest. “Nothing gives you pause? It’s okay if it does but—”

“It did at first,” Roger said, “when you told me I, I was overwhelmed to say the least, but that all ended before I ever came back from Easter.” He shifted closer, ran his hand across John’s stomach, pulled him in closer. “I don’t see you and think of you as some poor sod trapped in the wrong body. Your body’s your own, it’s just a body, and since you’re a man, it’s a man’s body. Maybe that’s—maybe that’s not right, or the right way to say it but that’s how I see it. And you happen to be similar to a lot of bodies I’ve been with, in a way it was a relief, I’ve never tried it but I’m sure I can’t suck a cock to save my life.”

“Not with your tiny mouth,” John said, the tension still evident in his voice, though slowly leaving him. It might not’ve been how John would’ve phrased it but a weight he hadn’t been aware of lifted off his chest, off his shoulders with every word Roger spoke. Each more understanding than the last, proof that he didn’t just know what to say to placate John but knew how to feel, how to see it all.

“I know there’re things you don’t like,” Roger pulled him closer still, turned into him, slotted their legs together a bit more firm to keep from drifting away, “I know you want to look more how everyone expects you too, but what I like about you and your looks doesn’t hinge on pretending your chest is naturally flat, or pretending I don’t know who the tampons in the bathroom are for, or pretending every photo of you before you moved to London was burnt up in a big fire.” His hand climbed higher, up his sore ribs, and up further still, his fingertips running over the softness there like it was nothing. “I don’t want you because you hide this stuff from me so well, I wouldn’t want you _more_ if you didn’t, I want you because you’re you, and I love you. And if you want to hide then hide, but you won’t scare me away if you don’t.”

With Roger’s hand pressed to his chest, John wondered if he could feel his heartbeat, could feel the way it picked up. “You love me?”

“In like a very cool and rock 'n' roll way and not at all a fruity way,” Roger added with a grin, his hand slipped down John’s chest, came to rest just under his ribs.

“I love you too,” John said with a sharp exhale, like the words snuck up on him. And they seemed to sneak up on Roger too judging by the way his breath hitched.

He looked like he might speak, might say something profound, but them seemed to recognise his bank for eloquent thought had run dry after that speech and instead he cupped John’s cheek and kissed him soft. More gentle than he normally would. Normally he was all teeth and desire or else he was falling asleep. But not then. Right then he kissed John like he might break and carded a hand through his wet hair in the same way. And John felt Roger pull him closer, felt Roger’s chest press to his, felt how warm, how soft his skin was, how welcoming his hold was. And felt Roger’s leg slide between his own, with innocent intent, just a need to get closer. Roger wasn’t paying attention to how his cock pressed to John’s hip, wasn’t aware of how his thigh pressed up against John’s center. John couldn’t keep his grinning at bay. Relief maybe, happiness, freedom too, flooded every inch of him the more Roger touched and held onto him with no intent but to hold on. No curiosity, no acknowledgement of how interlocked they were just his gentle kisses, and when he broke away and squeezed him tight, his quiet breathing in John’s ear.

Roger pulled away first, John grinned at him with a sort of shyness he hadn’t felt in years, and Roger grinned back. “Alright, enough emotional shit, let’s race.”

“What—race?”

“Getsetgo!” Roger said before pushing off the edge of the dock’s mount. John hesitated for a moment, then did the same, kicking as hard as he could to catch up to Roger going who-knows-where. His legs, his arms too, didn’t get the use and workouts that Roger’s all did banging away at his drums, there was no chance of keeping up, and Roger knew, and double back and splashed him, and rushed up to the dock to show him a dive he’d apparently perfected the summer before that ended up being more of a belly flop.

When he got tired, John, almost instinctively turned up on his back, floated, he hadn’t realised he remember how to do that until he was there, bathing in moonlight, drifting with the tide. His hearing muffled but Roger’s hand occasionally brushing by him while he worked on his more spectacular tricks. If he could’ve he would’ve fallen asleep right there, calmer than he’d ever been. Marred only by Roger at his side trying very desperately to do a handstand underwater.

“It’s nearly there,” Roger said, gulping down air. John forced himself back in the water, shook his ears out. “Here look.”

Roger took in a big gulp of air that John tried hard not to laugh at, and dove back under the water until his legs stuck up out of the surface at a forty-five degree angle. John reached over, corrected his legs, eased them straight up for him. He held it for a moment, then quickly sank back into the water and resurfaced with big gulps of air.

“Why don’t you stick your legs up straight, your knees are bent,” John teased.

“They were straight,” Roger said, rubbing the water from his eyes.

“I think I would know.”

“Well I think I would know,” Roger said. He brushed his hair back, took deep breaths like he might try it again, then eyed John, glared for a moment, and kicked himself back towards the dock.

“Where’re you going?” John laughed.

“I’m not going to do a handstand in such a negative environment,” Roger said. He reached the dock.

“What’ll you do instead? Another ‘swan dive’?” John teased, referring to his earlier attempt that ended up as more of a starfish fall in.

“I just might!” Roger said. He reached up for the dock’s edge, tried to heave himself up. Instead he heaved John’s clothes, perched on the edge, down into the water. “Oh—”

_“Roger!”_ John called, frantically swimming his way.

“I’m sorry!” Roger called as he collected everything that had begun to float and piled it on the dock. “I thought the wood was just soft I didn’t know I was grabbing your trousers.”

“What—soft wood?” John grumbled as he sidled up to Roger just in time for him to set the last of his clothes up on the dock. Roger heaved himself up with them, started wringing them out like that might salvage them for the night. “What now?”

“What’d’you mean what now?” Roger said as he twisted John’s shirt up and squeezed the water from it. “It’s not like lake water stains.”

“I meant what do I wear home, you nitwit,” John said, not bothering to hide the laugh that trailed his words. He wasn’t too happy about being left with nothing to wear out of the lake, but laughing at the image of Roger knelt down naked on the dock wringing out his clothes wasn’t something he wanted to squander by being cross.

“Oh,” Roger said, smirking at his own misunderstanding, “you can have some of my clothes.”

“Your trousers don’t fit me,” John said. He hated that no matter how much he weighed his hips would always be exactly two inches wider than Roger’s. Never had it felt more like a cruel twist of fate than in that moment. “And I’m not wearing your skin tight top with no bandages.”

“Well,” Roger sighed, “you can wear the lake clothes.”

“You do spoil me,” John said with a grin. Roger tried to glare back at him but broke into a smile.

“Wait right here,” Roger said, leaping up from the dock, John’s sopping clothes in his fists.

“Where would I go?” John called after him. He watched Roger, in the dark of the shadow of the trees, struggle his damp legs into his trouser, his arms through his shirt, and his boots back on over his feet. The fabric sticking to him in odd places since he hadn’t bothered trying to dry off. He returned down the dock with John’s boots, and the picnic blanket.

“Alright, get out.” He held the blanket up for him

“Seriously?”

“It’s the best I’ve got, but I can check in the back room if you like?”

“I want payment for this,” John said as he gripped the dock to pull himself up. “I want real money from you for this.”

“I understand,” Roger said as John flopped up on the dock and stood to be wrapped up in the blanket like a child getting out of the bath. “And the shoes.”

“Oh fuck off,” John said through a laugh. He slipped them on while Roger balled his wet clothes up more efficiently. Once he had both boots on, he held the blanket tight around his shoulders and hurried to Roger’s side like standing next to him might somehow protect his dignity from the forest around the lake.

“I am sorry,” Roger said as he led the two of them back up the incline toward his van.

“I know,” John said, unhappy with how much of a breeze he could feel against his entire body, the blanket only reaching down to his knees, not quiet enough to keep him as tightly covered as he normally liked.

“Didn’t spoil your night did I?” Roger asked casually, though the slight shake in his voice gave away how sincere the question was.

“No,” John laughed, “nothing could’ve spoilt it.”

Roger paused his climbing up the incline to grin at him. He reached back for John’s hand before realising he needed both to keep the blanket secure. He said he’d hold it ‘in spirit’ as they kept up and finally reached the van. John situated the blanket tight around himself and used Roger’s neglected seatbelts to hold it in place for him while Roger threw the lake-drenched clothes in the back.

“I’ll wash those for you,” Roger said as he turned the engine over.

“You’re like a prince,” John teased. “If you wouldn’t mind, can I stay at yours?”

“I never mind,” Roger said, lighting up the way he always did when John asked to stay.

“Good, I’d sooner die than try to get into my flat looking like this.”

“But my flat’s fine?”

“Your flat’s seen worse than this,” John said flatly.

~~~

Roger offered, once he parked, to run up and find John something to wear up to the flat. John figured the torture of getting dressed in Roger’s van with the not unrealistic chance of the clothes not fitting wasn’t worth the trouble, he may as well just run up in his boots and blanket. Roger led the way with the wet clothes in his arms and his flat key in his hand, ready to go as soon as they needed it. Roger fumbled at first but the door flew open in an instant and John rushed inside.

John asked for the first shower in a tone that more implied he’d be taking the first shower no matter what Roger said. Roger let him have it without a fight and said he’d fix them tea and winked when he went for Freddie’s stash of the fancy shit his mother bought him, promising John he slept too heavily to hear him stealing. John didn’t totally believe him but left him to it, knowing full well Roger would get the blame all to himself if Freddie caught them.

John shut himself in the bathroom, started the water and shed his boots and blanket waiting for it to warm up. And for once found himself not patently avoiding his reflection like a mere glance might physically hurt him. He knew that wasn’t all to do with Roger’s kind words, but he knew a big part of it was, and he could smile at his reflection, could bear to look down at his own body as he scrubbed all the remnants of the lake off, could bear to touch what he tended to shy from, all with Roger’s words, the feeling of their bodies innocently locked together replaying in his head.

The bathroom was dense with steam by the time he wrapped a towel around himself and got out.

“Tea’s on my sidetable,” Roger said from the kitchen, John peeked in to see him rinsing the kettle out. “Take whatever you want to sleep in, I’ll shower quick so don’t fall asleep before I’m back.”

“I won’t,” John said. Not particularly tired. A little worn from swimming so long but invigorated in a way he couldn’t describe. He meandered to Roger’s room, slipped into a pair of his pants and some big shirt in his dresser, and found the mug of tea Roger had left him. He cupped his hand around it, absorbed it’s warmth and sipped it down. He sat at the head of Roger’s bed, swung his feet up and settled in waiting for Roger.

He’d only gone for a moment, but John found he missed him. Missed how he felt wrapped around him, how open he’d felt tangled with him in the water. Missed how soft his touch was as his fingertips trailed across his body, not apprehensive in the slightest. It’d been ages since Roger tried to touch him like that. Since he’d opted for anything more than a searing kiss and a firm grip on his hips before John pushed him off and told him once again, there’d be nothing more.

But why should there be nothing more?

There were no doubts left. About Roger’s feelings, about his thoughts, about his love for him, there was nothing left to hold him back from it. He’d spend so many nights waiting for Roger to fall asleep so he could get himself off in the bathroom. It dawned on him then, that he may never have to have a night like that again. That pit in his stomach, that deep ache for Roger that flooded his lower half and made him squeeze his thighs together for a bit of relief, wasn’t being followed by a feeling of dread. Not this time. No thoughts of the worst case, no panic that something might go wrong should he dare to indulge, no fear that Roger might unravel his whole sense of self. All that was left was familiar, but untouched, desire.

“See,” Roger said, flying into his room and shutting the door with his foot, “speedy.”

“Mhm,” John said into his tea, choking on it a bit, like Roger’d caught him in the act of something much more embarrassing than daydreaming.

He watched Roger carelessly shed his towel, watched the way the muscles in his back, moved when he pulled his pyjamas on. What he wouldn’t give to feel those muscles under his fingertips, to claw up Roger’s back as he moved in him. Thoughts he used to push away, not wanting to get stuck on what he couldn’t have, were now clear and obtrusive in his mind, in his body. He opened his mouth to speak, as if he had anything lined up, and closed it again before Roger turned back around.

Roger grinned at him, stretched out, got a running startand flopped in the empty space between John and the wall. He lay still for a moment before groaning, “I guess we ought to get under the covers.”

“Oh—sure,” John said, awkwardly, like they’d just met. He couldn’t help it, not with his body so heavy so foreign to him suddenly, so full of need for something he’d never learned how to get. He’d never had to ask for it to be taken care of, normally Roger was the one asking and John was the one turning him away. Well now he’d stopped asking and John hadn’t taken notes on how to do it.

He set his tea down, switched Roger’s bedside lamp off and sank under the covers, his thighs still flexing together, desperate for some kind of relief that he didn’t know how to ask for.

Roger rolled over, draped an arm over John’s waist and threw his leg over John’s, squeezing him tight and nestling his nose in John’s hair. “I had fun,” he mumbled.

“Me too,” John said to the ceiling, his body perfectly still, perfectly tense.

“Sorry I dunked your clothes in the lake and made you ride home naked,” Roger said, his words slurred from his lazy delivery.

‘’S alright,” John said with a tight laugh. He stammered, let his words skip a beat before adding, “are you tired?”

“After all my olympic diving, I’m beat,” Roger said with a laugh.

“How tired?” John said.

“If you want to stay up, I’m game,” he said, inhaling deep like he was avoiding a yawn. “We can smoke if you like,” Roger mumbled in his ear, “or we can wake Freddie up, see what he’s got for us.”

“Yeah,” John mumbled careless;y. Silence set in for a beat, Roger waiting on John’s verdict of his suggestion to torment Freddie or get high while John worked up the courage to ask, “are you hard?”

“What?” Roger laughed. “No, I’m not hard.” Roger asked, rolling his hips against John’s thigh. “Does that feel hard to you?”

“I guess not,” John said with a fake laugh. “But er,” he held his breath, “could you get hard?” His heart pounded like he’d asked the world, and his eyes stayed locked on the ceiling, like looking at Roger might melt him.

“Er,” Roger’s hand pressed firm where it laid on John’s stomach, “what’re you asking me?”

John clenched his teeth and turned to look at Roger lying next to him and staring at him with a slack jaw and wide eyes, his pupils covering any hint of blue. He wasn’t sure how much of that was from the darkness and how much was from the offer. “Can we?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Roger whispered back, then more hurried, “yes—yes, we can.” He lurched forward, captured his lips in a kiss that calmed John and simultaneously set his whole body on fire. Roger moaned against his lips, into his mouth, a low pitched noise that resonated in John’s bones and made him whine in response, made him reach across Roger’s back, made him tug at Roger’s clothes until he rolled on top of him and settled over him, bit his neck, left marks on his jaw, and rolled his hips, his hardening cock against the warmth between John’s legs. He pulled back only to tug his shirt off in that same frantic manner he always did, as if John might end the whole night if he didn’t get it off in time. “And you?” Roger said, pulling lightly at the hem of John’s shirt.

“And me,” John said, not worried about it, not overthinking it, not caring the way he thought he might. Roger grinned, helped him out of his shirt and threw it off the bed in a hurry. And just as quick, his mouth was back on John. Brushing his tongue against John’s, trailing down his jaw, his neck, down further, his teeth grazing one nipple, his fingers circling the other, but neither lingered. He kept on, down down down, until he hooked his fingers in John’s pants and tugged them down just a bit before looking up at John for permission for more.

“Is it alright?” Roger said, his cheek resting on John’s thigh, his legs dangling off the bed now. He opened his mouth a bit, let his tongue graze his bottom lip, hinting at what he meant.

“Mhm,” John said with a nod, “please, Rog.”

“Fucking finally,” Roger huffed with a quiet laugh. He tugged John’s pants off, patted his hips, asked him to scoot up enough on the bed to let him comfortably lay between his legs. John shifted and smiled back at Roger when he grinned at him but held his breath and shut his eyes tight when Roger’s hands spread his knees apart and trailed up his thighs, his mouth moving in the same direction behind them before pausing at the crease of his thigh. John’s legs awkwardly splayed out on either side of Roger, waiting with his eyes shut for _something_. He could feel Roger’s breath, his lips ghosting against him, then his tongue, then a lot of suction that made John roll his hips forward.

Roger hooked one arm around John’s thigh and pressed his hand against his belly, pressed hard and held him tight while he squirmed. His other hand held on to John’s hip and kept him close. John whimpered out a series of curses mixed with Roger’s name. Roger returned the moans, hummed against John, but never broke away long enough to speak. John fumbled with his hands in the sheets, occasionally they reached up for Roger’s headboard, but could never settle. The feeling too overwhelming for any part of him to really stay still.

“You look amazing like this,” Roger slurred before pressing his tongue back in John. John whined and let his eyes crack open. He hadn’t really though about Roger watching him, hadn’t really thought about watching Roger. But quite suddenly it was all he wanted to do. Even if the sight of it turned his stomach, he wanted a glimpse of Roger on him.

He sat up a bit, glanced down at Roger’s big blue eyes staring back at him. Both unable to speak for different reasons, both trying to say a lot they couldn’t get out at the moment, both looking for something to help those thoughts along. John panted and reached for Roger’s hand on his hip, prodded his fingers until his grip loosened, and threaded his fingers with Roger’s. Roger smiled against him and held tight. And let his hand on John’s belly slink off him, back around John’s thigh, and back up between John’s legs until Roger’s tongue paused it’s ministrations to ease one finger in him.

Just how John remembered it. His fingers were so much longer, could almost reach that spot that ached so painfully, so wonderfully in John. He squeezed Roger’s hand with his own and bucked up against him with muttered pleas for a second, a third finger.

“What’s it feel like?” Roger husked, catching his breath for a moment while his fingers curled. “When you come from the inside?”

John was too far gone to answer, and Roger knew that when he asked. Knew that his answer would come in the form of John’s whimpering, his twitching, the way his muscles hugged his fingers, the way he squeezed Roger’s hand and arched off the bed, panted and breathed in quick as he got closer and closer, moaning Roger’s name, closer and closer.

And then it all paused.

“What,” John opened his eyes in a haze, squeaked when he felt Roger’s fingers leave him, “why’d you stop?”

“Not yet,” Roger said, leaving one last lingering kiss to John’s center, then his thigh, then his hip.

“Rog,” John whined, bucking his hips pathetically.

“It goes in easiest when you’re dying for it, and you look like you’re dying for it,” Roger said. He grinned down at him, cocky and confident, and wiped his mouth before inching his way up John’s body, and settling his knees on either side of his hips. “I’m a little bigger than that hair gel bottle you call a toy.”

“Not by much,” John teased, his confidence fading though he hoped Roger couldn’t tell.

“If you’d rather stick with the bottle, I can leave,” Roger said.

“No no,” John reached up, tucked Roger’s hair behind one ear, “I want you.”

Roger’s cock twitched against him. John might’ve teased him for it had he not been so transfixed, so frozen in place by the thought of him, by the subtle way he rubbed against John and breathed in deep like he’d never felt anything like it. John held his breath when Roger pushed in. It made sense that it’d feel hot but he hadn’t expected it. Hadn’t expected the heat, the fullness, the satisfaction, and the beautiful noises Roger made when he was fully seated.

“You alright?” Roger choked out, his breathing hard and his face buried in John’s neck.

“Yes,” John said with a roll of his hips, a desperate plea for more. A plea Roger answered. John clung to him tight and savoured the way Roger moaned his name in his ear, the way he swore and told him, over and over, how good he felt. John could only groan in return, the occasional snippet of Roger’s name coming out every once in a while, but mostly he was too far gone to really remember how to speak. Every cell in his body focused so intensely on the way Roger hit that spot in him, the spot so deep he’d never felt it for himself, that spot that ached for relief, that spot so deep so different from what he felt he had to be he used to hate the pleasure it begged for, the pleasure it gave him. But now, he couldn’t be more grateful for it, for his body’s own depth and insatiability that matched Roger to the letter.

“Are you close?” Roger grunted, mouthing John’s neck with no real aim as he pistoned in and out of him.

“Uh-huh,” John replied with the last of his energy.

“Good, fuckin’ hurry, I can’t hold it much longer,” Roger said, his words ending in a laugh.

John grinned but couldn’t find the clarity to laugh. He reached between them, rubbed circles against himself, how he knew he liked, and when Roger pushed in deep one more time, he screamed. Loud enough that Roger brought a hand up to cover his mouth and shushed him, but couldn’t be bothered to shut him up past that. John muttered some apology that went unheard, Roger too focused on finishing then. His grip on John tightened, his movements sent shockwaves through John’s oversensitive body, strong enough to send John over the edge again, though that time he bit Roger’s shoulder to shut himself up. Roger panted in his ear, the phrase ‘I’m coming’ leaving his lips once or twice before a long line of John’s name and an eventual mess on John’s stomach and thigh.

Roger pressed sloppy wet kisses to his jaw and kept an arm and a leg draped over him when he rolled off to his side. “You definitely woke Freddie up.”

“Not my fault,” John breathed.

“Fuck,” Roger rolled out onto his back, John looked over, watching him brush his shower-damp hair from his sweaty forehead. “Was I fooling myself or did you come twice?”

“I did,” John panted.

Roger clicked his tongue. “Haven’t lost my touch,” he said, sounding self-satisfied in a way that made John laugh.

“On my own, I like about three or four,” John said.

“Well,” Roger sighed, “alright, come sit,” he said, patting his chest.

“Maybe another time,” John laughed, too tired, too overwhelmed for anything more.

“Another time,” Roger repeated. He reached across John, found one of their discarded shirts on the floor and wiped the mess off him. They were warm enough by then not to need anything to sleep in really, just the sheets would do fine. They nestled in, wrapped around eachother blindly and got comfortable in eachother’s warmth, legs tangled together, arms tight wherever they rested, John on his back, Roger on his side draped all over him and nestled against his neck. If it had been anyone else, the hot breath, the sticky skin, would’ve driven John up the wall. But with Roger it was endearing, comforting, and welcome.

“What made you change your mind?” Roger mumbled against John’s skin.

“Not one thing in particular,” John replied, letting his eyes flutter closed at the way Roger’s fingertips lightly traced circles across John’s ribs, up to his collarbone and back down.

“Well I’m glad you did,” Roger kissed under John’s jaw, let his thumb brush across John’s nipple, let his hand wrap around his side as he pulled him in closer. “You know you’re beautiful.”

“You think?” John said with a giddy whisper, a little embarrassed to be hanging on his every word so obviously.

“I know,” Roger said, reaching up to press a lazy kiss to John’s lips, “every inch of you.”

“Every inch?” John said, staring up at Roger’s big eyes.

“Every inch,” he repeated before shifting back down to rest on John’s shoulder.

“I’m sure you know,” John said with a breath laugh, “but you’re beautiful too.”

“Mm,” Roger said, pressed a kiss to John’s neck, “doesn’t hurt to hear it.” He shifted his leg, wrapped it tighter against John’s hips and hummed at the feeling. “God, I love you,” Roger breathed, still catching his breath but teetering on the edge of sleep. “I really love you.”

“I love you too,” John said with a sleepy but giddy stammer. Roger breathed a quiet squeak of sleepy approval, happiness too, but had no energy for any more words, John felt much the same, and the way Roger held and sleepily kissed whatever bit of John’s body he could reach said more than any words could.

~~~

Freddie and Roger, as usual, were cutting into their practice time with their lateness. Brian, like a nagging mother, kept checking his watch and announcing to John how late they were, as if John didn’t know or had in some way fallen under the impression that they were actually already there.

“He was never this late before you started fucking him,” Brian said.

“I slept at home last night,” John said, though it was a lie, “don’t blame me for their inability to tell time.”

“Don’t they know we have busy schedules?” Brian said. “I’ve got test papers, I’ve got homework papers, I’ve got next week’s lesson plan—you’ve got exams coming up—I mean honestly!”

“It’s fifteen minutes, Bri,” John said with a smile.

Brian whipped around from facing the door to facing John with a serious expression carved into his face. “Don’t tell me you’re on their side.”

“There are no sides,” John said.

“For fuck’s sake,” Brian groaned, one hand on his forehead. “We’ve got to be a united front against their latent teenage rebellion. I can’t force them to budget their money and show up to appointments and pay their rent all on my own.”

“Roger’s good with money,” John defended. Brian just scoffed. “And I’m not taking their side, it’s a fifteen minute delay, there are no sides.”

“I swear, if he starts rubbing off on you, I’ll go postal,” Brian said.

“You know,” John scooted his chair over to Brian’s side and put a hand on his shoulder, and did his best to sound as much like a school counselor as possible, “just because Roger and I are together doesn’t mean you and I aren’t still friends.”

“Very funny,” Brian said through a laugh, a laugh that John mimicked, as he shook John’s hand off his shoulder. “I’ve already given you my whole emotional speech about how happy I am for you, now’s my time to complain about how much I hate your boyfriend.”

“Oh, please,” John scoffed, “you could never hate him.”

“I could easily hate him, I’m doing it right now,” Brian said with a grin.

“Sure,” John said with a laugh and a roll of his eyes.

“Well if they’re gonna be late, I’m getting coffee,” Brian said. He stood with a huff and ripped the practice hall door open like he wanted it to fly off his hinges. John didn’t care how late the hour got, there was nothing that could convince him to kill time with the communal coffee machine at the far end of the hall. Brian and Roger never shied from it but John reckoned Freddie was right when he said he heard a rumour of a staph infection originating from the filter.

When the door flew open again, John expected Brian and his temper to walk through with a cup of coffee. But Roger strolled in, sticks in hand and absolutely nothing else with him aside from his keys. “Hello, darling!” he said with an overdramatic tone a wide grin.

Freddie rounded the corner into the door, and with a quiet ’sorry, darling,’ kept it open for Brian. Roger strode to John, leant over him and kissed the corner of his mouth, then his nose, then his forehead. “How’ve you been?” he said, standing up straight to stretch his back out.

“Just fine,” John said with a shy laugh, a bit embarrassed to be more on display than he normally was with Roger.

“I see, Brian’s not here,” Roger scoffed. “After all that nagging about how Freddie and I are late, and he’s later than us.”

Brian cleared his throat, Freddie just giggled. And John watched Roger wince like he’d been struck before turning around.

“We’ve been here for nearly a half hour,” Brian snapped, slamming his coffee down on the nearest surface and flopping back in his chair that, notably, had his guitar case lying under it, something John wondered how Roger hadn’t noticed.

“How long have you been standing there?” Roger snapped, like it was Brian’s fault for overhearing him.

“I walked in behind you, fucking idiot,” Brian spat.

“Oh—I—I er, well it’s not what you think,” Roger said, his face redder than John had ever seen it. He wasn’t usually one to back down from an insult.

“What’s not what I think?” Brian said.

“I—er, I,” Roger brought a hand to his forehead, scrambling for words while John and Brian looked on desperately confused about his frantic stuttering. Until it dawned on John.

“He knows, Rog,” John said.

“He does?” Roger looked at him like he’d gone insane. “No he doesn’t.”

“Yes I do,” Brian said casually. “And, you know I have to nag you two because you consistently show up late, and I do mean consistently.”

“We show up, don’t we?” Freddie said with a cheeky grin as he sat at the piano.

“How long have you known?” Roger said, the redness in his face only getting worse.

Brian shrugged. “Since the start.”

“What—” Roger turned to John, “why didn’t you tell me?!”

“You didn’t tell me when you told Freddie,” John said defensively. “I thought you knew I’d tell him.”

“Why would you tell him of all people?” Roger said with a nervous laugh.

“What—What’s that mean—‘me of all people’?” Brian said with a biting tone. “I’ve known John longer than you and Freddie combined!”

“What’s that got to do with it?!” Roger spat. “Knowing John doesn’t mean you’re entitled to our business!”

“Oh but Freddie is?” Brian said with a smug look. John sighed, caught Freddie’s eye across the room. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, patting his finger against a high C, hoping to get them back on course but knowing it was a lost cause.

“Telling Freddie was different,” Roger said with a nervous hand on his collar.

‘Different how?” Brian laughed.

“What’s the big deal?” John added pointlessly, tiredly.

“The big deal is he knew the whole time—and—” Roger huffed.

“And what?” John said with a confused smile.  
.  
“And he’s embarrassed about how he went on and on about you when he thought he had me convinced you were some girl,” Brian said with a laugh.

“Shut up!” Roger said, more flustered than John had ever seen him.

“Oo—hold on,” Freddie said slamming the piano shut, “that sounded interesting—Brian explain,” Freddie said, snapping his fingers and hurrying up from the piano to join the fray.

“Right before Easter,” Brian said, his eyes locked on Roger, glaring at him with a grin, “he spent nearly a whole fucking hour in my flat, telling me about the girl he was going out with that night, he made me teach him how to read the fucking stars so he could point out constellations for ‘her’.”

“He’s exaggerating,” Roger said, though his bright red face didn’t help him.

“You said Brian _made you_ listen to all that about those constellations,” John grinned.

“Constellations?” Freddie sighed, looking disappointed. “God, that’s so corny.”

“It’s not corny!” Roger said, sweating now.

“It was sweet,” John offered, trying not to laugh at his expense but his tomato of a face made it hard.

“I spent an hour of my life listening to Roger wax poetic about this mystery woman who he was about set to marry,” Brian sneered. “All that tedious tiptoeing,” he groaned, “and when I asked what ‘her’ name was he said ‘Johnnifer’.”

“You didn’t,” John said with a howling laugh.

“I didn’t expect him to ask,” Roger said with a hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“When I asked if I could meet ‘her’ he said ‘she’ didn’t live in town, ‘international model’ was the phrase I think you used,” Brian said.

“John _could_ be an international model,” Roger said with an awkward laugh.

“God—you’re lucky he knew about you and John,” Freddie laughed. “If he hadn’t he would’ve thought you were making him up entirely.”

“Alright—Alright!” Roger said, still beet red. “We’ve had our laughs, can we just fucking practice?!”

“Yes we can, darling,” Freddie said with a pat on his shoulder. “Didn’t mean to tease you so hard.” Freddie turned to John and with a smirk added, “c’mon Johnnifer, get your bass out.”

“Okay!” Roger said storming towards the door. “I’m getting coffee.”

“C’mon, Rog,” Brian called apologetically.

“You’ll get the plague from that machine,” Freddie called, but Roger ignored them both and let the door slam behind him on his way out.

“Poor thing,” John said, staring at the door.

“The coffee is not poisoned, by the way,” Brian said, taking a sip of his cup.

“God—you’re literally begging for a flesh-eating virus,” Freddie said.

“There’s never been a case of a flesh-eating virus,” Brian said.

“But there has been a case of staph—”

“Allegedly!” Brian said.

John groaned and hopped to his feet, knowing full well Brian and Freddie wouldn’t look past their bickering to watch him leave, and he preferred it that way.

He slid out the door, let it close with a quiet click and hurried down the hall to the coffee machine he could hear Roger tormenting. Handling it too rough and swearing under his breath when it beeped in pain. He looked up, glanced at John headed towards him, then looked back down at the coffee pot, eager not to let their eyes meet again.

“Machine’s not working,” Roger said, the blush on his cheeks starting to fade.

“I didn’t want any,” John said, resting his hip on the edge of the counter. “You know, I think it’s pretty endearing that you went on and on about me,” he grinned, “and my modeling career.”

“If you’re gonna tease me too—”

“I’m kidding,” John said taking a step toward him, putting a hand on his wrist.

“I didn’t want him to put two and two together, I couldn’t exactly say you were a bassist,” Roger said tiredly.

“I know,” John said with a laugh. “It’s sweet that you just _had_ to talk about me so bad you gave me an alter ego.”

“Sweet or humiliating?” Roger said with an insincere smirk.

“Sweet,” John said. “And if it makes you feel any better, I was bothering Brian for weeks about you. He was at his breaking point by the time you got to him.”

“Hm,” Roger perked up, “you were talking about me?” John nodded. “What were you saying?”

“A lot of telling him all about our conversations and hoping he’d say you were flirting,” John smirked, “I think by the time you first kissed me and I still wasn’t sure, he was ready to hit me.” Roger smiled, subtle but genuine. “So are you done pouting?”

“I wasn’t pouting,” Roger said, though they both knew that was a lie.

“Right,” John said, his hand on Roger’s wrist moving to his hand, wrapping around his palm. “Are you always going to get this embarrassed about fancying me?”

Roger laughed, stepped a foot between John’s, stepped closer to him as his confidence swelled. “I’m not embarrassed that I fancy you, I do wish I’d shown it in a more masculine way. It’s all fine to go on with Freddie but I’d rather not have a nerd like Brian seeing me so mushy.”

“God forbid someone not see you as cool,” John teased.

“I’m prepared to continue pouting,” Roger warned, a grin tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Aren’t you always,” John laughed.

He led them back to the practice room. Freddie put an end to any continued teasing on Brian’s part by slamming his fingers down on dissonant piano chords and demanding everyone get behind their instruments.

John bounced around with his bass, kept his eyes on his strings while Freddie belted out the melody over his piano. Looking up only when he saw glimpses of Roger leaning down over his kit, speeding up on his bass drum trying to get John’s attention. He’d glance up, see Roger grinning at him like an idiot, and grin back just as wide and lovestruck. He saw Brian roll his eyes at the sight of it, heard Freddie yell ‘focus’ over their music, but didn’t pay either of them any mind.

Part of him still couldn’t believe it was Roger smiling at him, Roger vying for his attention, Roger loving him. How he wished he could’ve warned his eighteen year old self of the happiness awaiting him, the acceptance ready for him as soon as he could take it. Could’ve told him that there would be a light. At the end of the rejection from his friends, the lukewarm hatred from his family, the secrets and deception of his new life in London, at the end of that laid a shining beacon of comfort. A love he never thought he’d know, friendships he’d never thought he’d be able to keep, and a career that let those both flourish. Maybe the band would dissolve once they ran out of money, maybe they’d never make a cent off the album Freddie had planned for them, but he knew he’d have Roger through it, and that was more than enough.


End file.
